


My Immortal

by Ayngelcat



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-06
Updated: 2012-10-06
Packaged: 2017-11-15 18:54:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 42,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/530556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayngelcat/pseuds/Ayngelcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Robotbigbang 2012<br/>Wonderful art by Casusfere which goes with this fic can be found at: http://casusfere.livejournal.com/21418.html<br/>SUMMARY: Not long after their reactivation on Earth, the Constructicons struggle with various issues, trying to become functional. When Kickback is admitted to the Decepticon medbay after an attack by the coneheads, Hook finds himself deeply attracted to Shrapnel, and swept into a realm of new possibilities. Meanshile Kickback and Scavenger also develop a liking for each other. Will this destroy the Constructicons?<br/>Or could the Insecticon agenda and the new liaisons actually improve matters?</p><p>*Warnings:* Insecticon/Constructicon sex, sticky, P&P, tactile, oral. Explicit - please don't read if you don't like sticky. Also has a form of BDSM, violent noncon insecticon/conehead sex, prostitution, drug use and energon drinking in a quite vampiric style which some may not like. Notions of procreation, of the cloning type. Definitely not mechpreg, however.<br/>This fic has some dark 'moments,' but I'm also warning for fluff/angst/romance - and crack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is set around the first part of Season 2. I have lifted some headcanon from other stories, namely (1) that the Constructicons were with Megatron when they came to earth, but in stasis. They were reactivated after being 'built in the caverns' in Heavy Metal War. And (2) that Hook was once in a relationship with First Aid, which didn't work out.
> 
> Re the Insecticons: Coleoptera is an order of insects commonly called beetles. Hence Bombshell and Shrapnel are 'Coleopterans.'Orthoptera is an order of insects that includes the grasshoppers and criskets. Hence Kickback is an 'Orthopteran.'
> 
> Thanks to Ultharkitty for beta, to Eerian Sadow for inspiring me with the Hook and Shrapnel pairing, and to everyone else who cheered me on with this fic.

 

  **MY IMMORTAL** **  
**

**PROLOGUE**

**Afternoon. Decepticon base. Some time in 1984.**

**From the Journal of Scrapper, Constructicon Leader, Decepticon Command Earth Contingent 1984.**

Today, I spoke with Viewfinder, who seems to be leader of the Reflector triplets. He did not tell me much I don’t already know. It’s not as if Reflector wasn’t out of action for almost as long as us – even if he wasn’t in spark separation stasis. He said one thing though. _There’s Insecticons on Earth._

“Yeah?” I said. “I didn’t think any survived beyond the war.”

Viewie shrugged. These three did. Ha! And a lot more than just survive. Mind you, they ain’t your run of the mill, live in the ghettos in Kaon Insecticons. These three, they got …  powers. And they transform. Soundwave reckons the Quints had a go at them sometime.”

By that he meant the Quintessons, of course. Not seen or heard of for millennia – even before we left Cybertron. But still out there, making their mark on the universe. So it was said.  

“They tracked us to Cybertron,” Viewie went on. “But they got an escape pod. Fraggers survived. And whaddya know? While we’re cooped up in that mountain for four million years, they’re out and about bringing on the planetary evolution stuff. You know - ice ages, heat surges, species extinction – that kinda thing. They even got blamed for a meteor impact. They eat a lot, see?”  

This – apparently - explained everything.

I confess to having been curious. “And Megatron tolerates them?” I said. He had found allies among minorities and refugees prior to the war. But it had not been without complications.

Viewie smirked. “Megatron didn’t have much choice. The one with the lightning antlers – phewie! Even Megs realized we’re better off with him onside. Besides …” he cackled. “That one’s proved handy around the base. Keeps certain mechs happy – if you know what I mean.”  

It was pretty obvious what he meant – which made me more curious still, as there are those among us, such as Seekers, who are selective in their facing partners. “Well, I doubt we’ll have much to do with them,” I said.  “We’ve got a heavy schedule. And our work cut out with this Transfixatron thing.

He had an odd look on his face. “That Shrapnel – kinda messed up our plans,” he said. “Coneheads– we sorta liked ‘em _._ Y’know? Spyglass and Spectro, they like it a bit – _rough._ Now we’re without. So if any of you Constructicons could do with a bit of …”

“We look after our own needs, buddy,” I cut him off. Not unkindly, but in such a way that I hoped he wouldn’t push it. He didn’t.

So that was who this Insecticon ‘serviced’. That creep Dirge and the other recently arrived jerks. Now things made sense. Who else would wanna face with _them?_

As for Reflector, I won’t tell the others of Viewfinder’s desires. It will only cause problems. We need to keep our facing intra-team at present. With Hook’s depression, Longhaul’s despondency, Mixmaster’s substance abuse problems, Bonecrusher’s anger management and Scavenger’s self worth issues, we have enough to sort out without adding complications.  

But I will tell Hook of the Insecticons. He is interested in aliens. It might give him something to study. This in turn might relieve his melancholic state.

I hope something does. It’s really eating me.

 

**PART 1**

**Decepticon Base, Pacific Ocean, 1984**

Whatever was in Mixmaster’s latest concoction, it did the trick; for in his quarters on the undersea base, Hook recharged soundly. Some time in the early hours, however, this changed. The usual alarm signalled the activation of the access tower, and then there were other sounds; the shouting of drunken voices and heavy footsteps, a crash as of something falling, followed by raucous laughter.

The crane recognized the voices. _Slagging coneheads._ He kept his optics firmly offline, determined that the whole of him would stay that way. But it was too late. The noises receded. Onlinedness,  however, did not. 

As usual, he was bombarded by thoughts which were the opposite of cheering. The claustrophobic  base with the infernal fish perpetually passing the windows. The organicness of the planet. The coming online in a backwater of the universe to find the war still going on. The conflict - after millions of years - no further advanced.

_Mechs like those Coneheads._

Worse, himself in the same situation.

Yes – _that._ It was not that Hook disliked his team mates. He had no choice but to like them.  The gestalt programme ordained nothing less, and even before they hitched up they’d been ‘mates.’   But that did not stop the sure knowledge that, really and truly, Hook could have done better.  

First Aid had been right. He was too good for all this. He should have stayed solo.

With a sigh, Hook turned over. He was well awake now, engulfed by these depressing truths, the potion’s alleviating effects exhausted.  

Trouble was, there was no way out of it. If Hook did not make a go of this, did not star as Devastator’s head component and pave the way for their egomaniacal leader to rule the universe, then the egomaniacal leader’s number two would simply remove their sparks. He would put them back in stasis, as they had been for some four and a half million years before Shockwave had activated them for the ‘heavy metal war’, as it had come to be known.  

And it was not that this, in itself, was a problem – for there was nothing unpleasant in spark separation status.  No thoughts, no pain. Just nothing. It was not like personality isolation as with that mind prison. When you came out, it was like you just came back online.

But the familiar chill shivered through Hook’s circuits. All that _nothingness_ , while life went on without him. And that did not compare to the worst aspect: the _not knowing_ , when you went under, whether you would ever come back again.

Death. So final. To not exist forever. For the universe to continue to eternity without him in it. Despite watching countless mechs die, Hook had never fully realized the implications for _himself;_ not until he was fighting with every last piece of self control to _not_ show what an appalling prospect his possible ‘death’ was.  A battle he’d nearly lost. Had it not been for Scrapper.

The door opened. Hook’s optics were still offline. But he knew it was Scrapper. _Talk of the devil._

“Hey!” Scrapper said. “You awake?” That insufferable enthusiasm. It always seemed to be _there._ Even at spark separation.

“No,” said Hook, hating the cheeriness, the fact that Scrapper had no problem staying up late; that the mech relished devoting himself to hapless universe-conquering projects, and didn’t think about failure and futility or death.  

Scrapper came over. He perched on the edge of the berth. “There’s been some trouble,” he said. “There’s a job.”

At least it wasn’t that Transfixatron. “If it's Coneheads, they can fix themselves.”  

“It isn’t Coneheads. Its an Insecticon.”  

Hook’s optics onlined. That did make matters slightly more interesting. He’d always been intrigued by Insecticons, had studied some in Kaon before the war. Scrapper had said some were here; three strays who’d escaped in a pod before it crashed. Hook had liked the story when he’d heard it. Their ingenuity was admirable. He’d hoped to make contact.

But it hadn’t happened. The Insecticons had kept to themselves, allegedly in a forest on the mainland. They came to the base occasionally, it was said, but Hook had never seen them.

“It’s the smaller one with the wings,” Scrapper said. “Orthopteran, they call his species. He’s not in a good way. Coneheads grabbed him last night and did a number …” he hesitated. “They wanted to see if he was as good as Shrapnel.”  

Hook came more online. He leaned up on one elbow. “What do you mean?”

Scrapper let out a sigh. “The antlered one. Shrapnel. He’s been – er – servicing the Coneheads. He’s expensive though. Story goes they felt like a freebie …”

Scrapper snorted. “They didn’t get one by all accounts. Kickback may be small but he’s fast. He didn’t get off unscathed, though. The others brought him in.”  

“They’re _prostitutes?_ ” Frankly, that was astounding. And not without intrigue.

“Only Shrapnel.”  Scrapper looked at him sharply. _Don’t even think about it_ was written all over his face. “The other’s a medic of sorts. A psychiatrist.”

Hook flopped back and stared at the ceiling. Scrapper was getting paranoid. As if he, Hook, would actually _pay!_ Nevertheless, he could not help wondering what the Insecticon _had_ that could induce the Coneheads to do that. They were definitely not sexy, but they were notoriously stingy. Obviously, however, he was not about to find out.

Scrapper was still on the berth. Hook saw that he’d taken off his mask. “Kickback’s in medbay,” he was saying. “But there’s no hurry. If you know what I mean.” His optics glinted.

Hook did know. And had he still been consumed by negativity, doom and gloom then he would doubtless have ignored the urgings of the gestalt programming to strengthen the team cohesion. He would have pushed Scrapper away, allowing his annoyance with the leader to make itself clear. Enthused, however, by this new revelation, succumbing was pleasant.

“Alas the Coneheads,” he said sweetly. “What a dreadful fate. Whereas I …” his lips brushed Scrapper’s helm, “have all I need. Right here. For free.”

That ought to please Scrapper, Hook surmised. It did. Happy to be pulled on to the berth, and more than ready for the passionate kiss which followed, the leader responded enthusiastically.  

 

...................

 

Shrapnel’s antlers twitched as he regarded the cricket on the edge of the medberth.

Kickback’s shoulders were hunched, his long legs dangling. Dings and scuffs covered the purple and black frame. One wing was torn, an antenna twisted; the remaining one twitching spasmodically as it sought to compensate for the reduction in the Insecticon’s ability to sense his environment. From an arm in a sling, wires protruded.

It was some relief that this was not, in fact, as bad as it looked. There was nothing which could not be patched, in conjunction with Kickback’s superior self repairs. The medic, so long as he was competent, would not even have to particularly know about Insecticons; Kickback would soon be good as new.

But Kickback had been frightened, his pride dented – even though he would never admit it. And because of that, because of the dejection now inherent in the normally irrepressible Orthopteran, a need for revenge burned in Shrapnel. The Coneheads would pay.  

Not that this was apparent. Both he and Bombshell remained perfectly calm, their dark faces expressionless. There was no need to get ‘hyped up’ and storm the corridors of the base, loudly proclaiming intentions, as the Decepticons were wont to do. Vengeance was simply an inevitable event, a consequence of the Insecticon way. It could wait. Kickback’s health, for now, took priority.

On the cricket’s face, a frown was forming – and it wasn’t all to do with the fight. Or the wait.  Shrapnel said nothing. He didn’t want another interrogation again about his ‘activities,’ about the rationale behind the interface with the Coneheads. There would be another row about cloning, about the amalgamation program, and another outburst about using Coleopteran, not Orthopteran models.

Kickback was, in fact, included more than he thought. It was just that the choice for amalgamation was … delicate. Kickback’s facing partners here so far, had been unsuitable prospects. Autobots. Definitely not combined cloning material.

Nevertheless, Shrapnel would have spoken more, given the animosity this had caused between them in recent times. But Bombshell was adamant. If nothing else, timing was crucial. “Get your own program underway first,” he had insisted.  Not that this was without ‘hitches;’ for with tonight’s events, the Coneheads had ended their chances. Shrapnel would discuss it with Bombshell later.

Time ticked on. Kickback shifted restlessly. They had been here for a while. Tension grew. His impatience finally spilled over. “I don’t want a slaggin’ Decepticon medic!” he snapped. “Why don’t you do the stick back together thing, Bombshell?”

“Now Kickback!” Bombshell frowned. “That is an act of necromancy, as you know well, and works only in cases of dismemberment. As does the fact that it only works on Coleopterans such as Shrapnel and I.”

“Oh of course, how could I forget?” Kickback’s heels scuffed the side of the berth. “It’s like everything else around here, innit!”

A wave went through Shrapnel’s circuits. He felt probably the closest thing to affection at that moment that an Insecticon could. _If only we were not different species_ he thought again. And if only we could amalgamate Coleopteran and Orthopteran, there would be no need for the program! But no, he must not get ‘soft.’ When Kickback was vulnerable, it was tempting to succumb to very un -Coleopteran notions. But this was not the Way.

“You must keep your strength up, Kickback, Kickback!” he hissed. “Now stop whining, whining.” His antlers glowed, an iridescent blue-grey. Kickback looked furious. “You’d be whining if your wing was torn in half!” he snapped. “And you’d especially be whining if it was my bloody fault it happened!”

Bombshell looked stern. “There’s no need for that language,” he cautioned. “You know very well that Shrapnel has been not only procuring high quality energon, but also uncovering a number of Decepticon initiatives Megatron believes are held secret. And I hardly have to mention the gains for the cloning process.”

 _Oh no, he mentioned it_. Luckily, however, Kickback was focused on other things. He clutched his injured arm, scowling.

“If this medical moron doesn’t show up soon, I’m gonna kick a hole in that wall!”

“Kickback! Do you want me to have to use a cerebroshell?”

Shrapnel sighed inwardly. This perpetual bickering! And after all these aeons, Bombshell had no idea how to handle the cricket. Not that he, Shrapnel, always did much better - but at least he didn’t come out with _things like that,_ guaranteed to inflame the situation. As if Bombshell would use a cerebro anyway. He was saving them for very different things.

But before Kickback could answer, the door whooshed open and a lanky, angular green mech entered. He paused, his optics widening at the Insecticon trio.

 Shrapnel did a quick scan of his frame. Long purple legs were attached to a compact, tough looking green body. His chest was purple and green, attached to it some kind of pivot device. Behind him, a metal scoop dangled like a tail.

Pastel shades of electric blue scintillated briefly through Shrapnel’s antlers. He coughed slightly to hide his amusement. Cybertronians! He would never cease to be amazed by the alt forms they came up with. Still, it wasn’t displeasing. And Kickback seemed to like what he saw. His optics had settled on the purple legs. Anything for a quite life. It was an improvement on minibots.

Bombshell cleared his throat. He held out a hand. “Hook, I presume?” he said.

The mech looked nervous. “Er – no. I’m Scavenger. Hook’s – on his way. I’m your nurse for today. We take it in turns, see?”

Shrapnel was intrigued. His antlers twitched, curiously. “We, we?”

Scavenger swallowed, visibly. He took a deep intake. “Yeah! There’s six of us Constructicons. We came online lately. We build things. When we’re not being Devastator, and Hook’s not doing things medical. I’m not always a nurse. I’m a geologist!”

Shrapnel was pleased. This apparent urge to blurt out reams of useful information was promising. The mech’s fear was also... respectful; as was deserved. It made up for Seekers and Coneheads, their arrogance and braggartry.

“Ah yes,” Bombshell was saying. “Shockwave’s combiner. Fascinating technology!”

Scavenger looked at Kickback. “I’m supposed to like – examine him. Hook said ….” 

“Splendid idea!” Bombshell rubbed his hands together. “Go right ahead!”

It was another wrong thing to say.

Kickback erupted. “How dare you just give him permission, just like that!” he yelled.

He scuttled back on the berth. “Keep away from me!” Scavenger’s legs, evidently, had lost their attraction.

Scavenger, who evidently hadn’t noticed the _leg_ thing, looked stricken. “I’ll be gentle, honest!”

Kickback was all wide optics and twitching antennae. Shrapnel wondered if this _was_ anti Bombshell behaviour, or if the Coneheads had frightened Kickback more than he’d given them credit for.

“Don’t be silly, Kickback, Kickback. This is a medical thing, thing!” He tried to sound soothing. But the cricket was having none of it. He shrank back, wincing at the obvious pain.  

It had been a long night. Bombshell’s horn twitched, his patience wearing thin.  “I think perhaps I _will_ have to use a cerebro, Shrapnel. If you could hold him down …”  

“Noooo!” Injured though he may have been, Kickback still managed to transform with great speed. Bombshell and Shrapnel sidestepped as Kickback’s powerful back legs aimed forcefully in their direction. Caught unawares, Scavenger was not so lucky. He hurtled into a nearby trolley. Mech and trolley crashed to the floor.  

“Kickback, that was totally uncalled for!” Bombshell looked furious as he strode over to the cricket. Meanwhile Scavenger, his embarrassment obvious, picked himself up and struggled to regain his composure.

“Tch tch tch, we really do need to improve your berthside manner, Scavenger.”

Shrapnel had not heard the door open again.

The voice was melodious, sarcasm tinged with amusement. Looking for its source, Shrapnel saw that another mech had appeared in the doorway.

Shrapnel perked up. This one was green and purple like the other but taller, and _different._ Angular, but somehow more aesthetic. On his back was another haulage device. A hook dangled near his waist.

Bright optics swept the scene, keen and red in a sculptured, intelligent face. _So this is Hook,_ Shrapnel thought. _He is - striking._  

Scavenger was back on his feet, the trolley righted. “Hook,” he said, looking awkward. “I was just sorting things out.” He pointed at Kickback. “He’s frightened, see? About his wing. He’s gotta get restrained.”  

Hook nodded. His presence seemed to have affected everyone. Kickback, who had transformed, straightened himself stiffly and resumed his position. Bombshell stepped back. Shrapnel noted that energon now oozed from Kickback’s wing. S _illy Orthopteran,_ he thought, rather fondly. But mainly, his attention was on Hook.

“Restraint?” Hook raised an optic ridge. “I hardly think that’ll be necessary.”

He sauntered across; a slightly lopsided gait with a long stride. His optics flickered over the cricket’s frame, as a long finger ran along the broken edges of the wing. Kickback tensed, but did not protest. A crooked smile appeared on Hook’s face.

“I think there are less drastic measures than a cerebroshell ….” He nodded to Bombshell. “No disrespect, of course. Scavenger, fetch a bottle of three forty five.”

As Scavenger scurried away. Bombshell offered Hook his hand. “No disrespect taken,” he said. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, familiar as I am with your programmer, Shockwave.”

A shadow crossed Hook’s face. But he nodded, and shook hands back. _There is history there,_ Shrapnel thought.  But he was impressed. The mech was courteous.

Crossing the room, Hook flicked several switches. Machines sprung to life, screens appearing which showed traces and schematic data. Bombshell looked impressed. “Remote sensors,” he said. “You can read him without plugging in?”

“Correct,” Hook said. “But I will probably deploy a 3D image. The Insecticon structure is complex, and the Orthopteran wing especially so.”

Shrapnel could not take his optics from Hook. Everything he did was with an air of professionalism, of confidence and great precision. _And he knows about Insecticons,_ Shrapnel thought. That was unusual. Even before the war, it had been rare.

Scavenger was back. The bottle he handed Hook was filled with a purplish liquid. A tendril of steam leaked from the open top. Kickback eyed it suspiciously. “That might not suit my systems!” he ventured, bravely.

Bombshell looked reproachful, but Hook smiled, again that attractive, lopsided smile.  “That mixture is formulated for your kind. I have had an expert prepare it.”

 _I’m sure it is,_ Shrapnel thought. _For this one_ _has done his homework. “_ Drink it, Kickback Kickback,” he hissed.  

Hook looked up, as though noticing him properly for the first time. Their optics met briefly, Hook’s burning with a striking intensity. _Something_ passed between them. It was - an understanding? A kinship? Like with Megatron that day? Shrapnel could not tell. It was stronger than that. Deeper.

A burst of energy flared from Shrapnel’s ever sensitive field, his antlers crackling at the tips.

Hook, evidently, felt it. He looked surprised – and then smiled slightly. His optics coasted over Shrapnel as his own field altered, only mildly, but enough for Shrapnel to detect. It was Shrapnel’s turn to smile. He ignored Bombshell’s very quiet chuckle.  

Kickback drank, hesitantly. Scavenger stood close by. “You’ll feel really good in a moment. Trust me!” the nurse said.

This seemed to be accurate information, for about half way through the cricket’s optics glazed over, and a ‘gooey’ look came over him. He quickly guzzled the rest. He grinned at Shrapnel. “I feel sleepy!” he giggled, leaning against Scavenger, whose face lit up.  

Bombshell raised his optics to the heavens. “Thank the Hives for that!” he said.

“Scavenger,” Hook regarded them with a sardonic smile. “If you could disentangle yourself and position him on his side with the wing injury uppermost, that would be most helpful.”

Grinning, Scavenger complied.

................

Hook, in accordance with his programming, worked deftly on the wing, his skilled fingers knitting wires and connecting conduits, mending broken nodes. A bowl filled with small components sat on the trolley next to him. Instruments clinked on metal, and tendrils of smoke rose periodically from the wound as Scavenger applied the solder gun. The scent of charred circuitry mingled with the aromatic and not at all unpleasant scent of the Insecticons.

Every now and then, Hook paused to admire the complexities of the fascinating structure in his hands, or to run a check on the Orthopteran. But Kickback reposed peacefully throughout, intakes sighing with small movements of his chest. His antennae flopped on the berth, inert and unreceiving. Hook looked forward to their examination.  

In the background, Hook was conscious of the other two Insecticons watching with interest. Yet nothing, even the fascinating antlered creature, disturbed his concentration. Such was his programming. It could not have been otherwise. He did, however, recap his historical knowledge. This was permissible. Under the circumstances.

Insecticons were not from the Cybertronian quadrant. Or the Earth one. They hailed from a distant star cluster, known universally as the Pleiades. There were hundreds of stars in it. Many insectoid species had populated the innumerable worlds. War and genocide had been common; yet eventually, an accord had been reached, a system, which worked. Hive species were in servitude. Higher orders  - such as these three here – were in control.

It had led to peace for millennia. Rather as pre-Republican Cybertron had done. Things had changed, however  – but not from internal conflict.  A race from a neighbouring system known as ‘Arachnids,’ had invaded the Pleiades in masses. The worlds had fallen, the insectoid species’ destroyed.

Some had gotten away. They had scattered, to deep galactic reaches. The Hivers had settled some worlds, formed colonies in space; even made it to Cybertron, but not survived in the inorganic environment. The higher orders had seemed, however, to adapt. Some even became cybernetic. _How_ exactly, nobody knew. Hence the Quintesson theories.

As he finished with Kickback’s wing, Hook pondered this. Given the intricacy of Kickback’s systems, certainly it was possible. Such a shame there’d been no chance for study on Cybertron.

No, Hook reflected grimly as he closed the wound.  Insecticons had not been popular. Seen by many as a drain on an already overpopulated planet, they’d been persecuted, sometimes hunted down; hardly in accordance, of course, with the ‘sentience empathy’ promoted by the Senate, but much more readily accepted once ‘cannibalism’ and ‘insecticon invasions’ had been lodged in Cybertronian processors.

Anger simmered in the medic. Cases of the former were rare, and there’d been no evidence of the latter. He knew the ‘types’ who had spread such rumours. Medics like Ratchet, right wing politicians like Magnus. The very ones who claimed to fight for ‘equality,’ who’d preached a ‘free Cybertron.’

The ones who’d crushed Hook’s own career, kept him from practising medicine in Iacon because of his less than alpha caste origins.

And Optimus Prime had known about the Insecticons. Hook was sure of it. He and his military stalwarts, like Kup and Ironhide. They hadn’t liked Insecticons either. Insecticons were tough. Survivors. An uncomfortable reminder that mechs like them were, perhaps, not as superior as they thought. Equality was fine, it seemed, when egos weren’t at stake.

Hook’s fingers twitched as he finished with the wound. Anger was not permissible. Not just now. Besides, it was not all bad – Megatron had found a ready made army of anti-Prime recruits. The Decepticon leader was not adverse to insecticon practices at all. It had helped turn the tables – just a little.

Not that there’d been a real ‘success.’ But Hook did not want to think of that.

He turned his attention to the antenna, losing himself again in the sensory structures, the high potency energon flowing in the intricate network of conduits which -  he was sure  - had to be Quintesson.

“Those repairs look very satisfactory. Very satisfactory indeed!” Bombshell broke the silence. He sounded impressed. _So he should be._ All the same, it was nice to be appreciated.  

Hook nodded. “They should knit to a perfect finish,” he said. “Self repairs will do the rest.”

Shrapnel said nothing; but his alloys rustled softly, alien and exotic. Hook became aware of him again, his strange, silent yet powerful presence. He was sure Shrapnel watched, not only his work, but him, personally. Yet this was not unnerving. In fact, it was rather exciting. Mainly, however, it was - to Hook’s surprise - curiously reassuring. 

Intrigued by his own reaction, Hook _shifted_ slightly, so he could see Shrapnel in his peripheral vision. Arms crossed over his chest, the Insecticon looked proud, like an ancient sentinel. Permeated with myriads of minuscule points of light, the antlers glowed iridescently; a living palette of dancing static. Hook could not suppress a tingling in his circuits. The mech was more than interesting, period. But how fascinating were _those?_

 _What exactly were they for?_ Hook mused. Something about _conductors,_ Scrapper had said, before they parted. Amazing. _What would they feel like to touch? Is that what the Coneheads pay for?_

Hook’s hands paused, his attention wavering as very non medical thoughts invaded his processor. His circuits burned with a sudden sharp longing to know more, to examine those antlers, to learn about _Shrapnel._ He took a deep intake, hearing Shrapnel shift again, He had no doubt – no doubt at all - why the Coneheads paid.

 _What are you?_ Hook determined to find out.

“Hook?” Scavenger was looking at him curiously. Hell – he just allowed his medical programming to override. That _never_ happened. “You OK?” Scavenger said. But he sounded a touch amused.

Hook moved again so he couldn’t see Shrapnel, ignoring the waft of aromatic scent which suddenly permeated his olfactories. His fingers returned to the antenna.  “I was evaluating the correct approach,” he snapped.  “I’d be obliged if you’d concentrate please, Scavenger, and hold this antenna firmly at the base.”

To Hook’s annoyance, Scavenger smirked. But he did as he was told. Kickback squirmed slightly and murmured. The antenna twitched in Scavenger’s hand, and Kickback’s body stiffened. Then, a smile appeared on his face and he settled, with a small sigh of contentment. 

Chuckles from the other Insecticons filled the air. They sounded almost beautiful to Hook, like the peal of small bells. Scavenger appeared delighted. His excitement through the bond was tangible. “It went all tingly!” he said.   

“That’s a very sensitive part of his anatomy,” Bombshell sounded impressed. “Like my horn and Shrapnel’s antlers. However, Hook’s examination so far has been insufficient for arousal. He must like you.”  

“He does?” There was no mistaking that Scavenger was enraptured.

“Obviously-viously!” Shrapnel concurred. “It is all in the touch, touch.”

Hook thought his circuits might explode at the surge that went through them. Even Shrapnel’s voice, that strange affection, was thrilling, intoxicating. He only just stopped a substantive flare escaping, managing with a struggle to divert it inwards. He seethed at the searing sensation of unreleased charge.

Damn Scavenger! If ever this gestalt thing sucked, it was now.  

//Keep your thoughts to yourself,// Hook snapped into the comm as he seized the antenna and set the medical programming – again. //This is a medical bay, not a massage parlour. If they get pissed off, don’t think it’ll be fun. I gather they’re a lot less benign than they look.//

Even as Hook said it charge rebounded through his circuits and his core burned hotly. It was true. _Survivors …_ his mind went back to the concept. In Bombshell’s composure, in Shrapnel’s extraordinary beauty there was resolve, a danger, a _deadliness._ Like a hidden strength ready to spring. Magnificent! Hook could barely contain his excitement.

For a second time, he fought down his frustration, focusing for all he was worth on the medical program, the intricate structure beneath his hands.

Agreeable sounds still came from the other side of the room. //They don’t sound pissed// Scavenger snickered. //You’re just jealous. I’ll bet you’d really like to get your hands on … //

Hook knew the look he gave the other Constructicon was murderous. The mirth drained from Scavenger’s face. //I won’t tell you again, I’ll get Longhaul!//  

He returned to his work, manoeuvring so his back was to Shrapnel and Bombshell, and excluding all thoughts of antlers and deadly strength other than was strictly necessary for the carrying out of this repair.

The silence which followed was punctuated only by the clinking of instruments and the steady hiss of robot intakes.

Hook completed the operation with no further distractions. Not even the history files.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bombshell and Shrapnel discuss their cloning agenda, annoying Kickback who takes off into the forest. Meanwhile Hook's interest in Shrapnel grows, leaving the Constructicons with their own problems.
> 
> *Warnings:* This story contains Insecticon/Constructicon sex, sticky, P&P, tactile, oral. Explicit - please don't read if you don't like sticky. Also has a form of BDSM, violent noncon insecticon/conehead sex, prostitution, drug use and energon drinking in a quite vampiric style. Notions of procreation, of the cloning type. Definitely not mechpreg, however.  
> Although this fic has some dark 'moments,' I'm also warning for fluff/angst/romance - and crack.
> 
> This chapter has angst and sticky sex.

**PART TWO**

**TWO DAYS LATER, MORNING**

**From the Journal of Scrapper, Constructicon Leader, Decepticon Command Earth Contingent 1984.**

I spoke to Long Haul, today. "I'm worried, Longie," I said. "Things aren't good. With Hook."

"Oh no!" An exasperated look appeared. "I thought you guys were going all right?" He hates being burdened with our domestics. Even though he's the best one at sorting them out. The only one who really can, in fact.

I checked the channels to the others were closed. Then I told him. "Hook's acting odd," I said. "For the last two days, he's been wanting to frag all the time. We did it first thing yesterday, and then all day. It was amazing. But it was weird."

Even now I melt at the memory of the heat, of his lust, of him inside me. But it _was_ weird. I wasn't exaggerating that.

Long Haul threw his hands in the air. "And that's a problem?" he cried. "Half your luck. I can't recharge from listening to Bonecrusher banging Scavenger, an' Mix has been too out of it to know the time of day. You wanna try special mix high grade fumes for a fun start to the day.

"Six millennia, and I swear there's stuff I just don't get about you guys," he went on. "I thought you _liked_ getting that from Hook?" He regarded me sceptically. "I s'pose you're gonna tell me it kept you from working."

There was that, of course. The Transfixatron is hardly going to build itself. But it's not the main issue. "No," I said. "And of course I like getting it from him. But that's the point. _I don't think it was aimed at me."_

This hurt my spark as I said it, and it does again as I write it. And there was me, thinking that, after all this time, I was over Hook's need for gratuity; over his numerous infidelities, his longing for something different. "I just know – it wasn't," I said. "And after this morning, he went all cold and distant."

No, I'm not over it. The iciness of that memory of that is about as opposite to the memory of the fragging as you could get.

"Oh, I see. This again. I mighta known that four or so millions of years of sleeping wouldnta changed _this!"_ Long Haul looked at me, reproachful, but sympathetic. He might be a grouch a lot of the time, but he does understand.

"Scrap – whenever are you gonna learn - that's what Hook _does_." he said. "You can try all you like, but you ain't never gonna get that mech cuddly. You want that, you gotta drop him an' go with Mix. Or get Scavenger offa Boney?"

But that only made things worse. I shivered. "Boney's who I reckon the fragging was aimed at," I confessed. After all, he is the obvious choice, and I had made a big deal about 'team.' I'd just hoped any of Hook's urges would be directed solely at me.

"I don't want Bonecrusher fragging him Long Haul," I said. "I don't want him with anyone – except me. Not just now. Not until he sorts himself out."

Long Haul sighed. "He ain't gonna _sort himself out._ He's just – Hook! And Scrap – you know what? You're gonna unbalance things again with this."

"I know," I said. "I can't help it. We're just gonna have to deal with it."

The gestalt functions on an even balance, you see. Of connections and emotions. My feelings for Hook have put things out of whack on more than one occasion.

Now I'd confessed, I was filled with Hook-induced wretchedness. Long Haul let out a sigh.

"Scrap – you know this ain't gonna change," he said. "It's a pattern - you know how it is. The universe hasn't gone a hundred per cent his way. So - he'll brood, sulk, be obnoxious, and go into a world of his own. Then he'll panic and want to connect – which is what just happened. Once that's all done, he goes back to being an aft again, an' the whole thing's back to square one."

I knew all this of course. I also knew that in that mix was not the sort of stuff I wanted back from Hook.

Long Haul put his arm around me and squeezed. It helped. A bit. But I had to know. "I can't bring myself to open the bond with him," I said. "Is he with Bonecrusher now?"

"For frag's sake!" Long Haul rolled his optics. He took his arm away. "Primus was havin'a ball the day he made me open to all o'you wasn't he?" he grimaced. "But anyway - no. Boney's doing Mix. You'd think Scav woulda worn the mech out – but no. And Hook? He's studying Insecticon schematics."

That was a huge relief. So it had worked, encouraging an interest in the Insecticons. I hoped it would take his mind off things. I hoped it would make him happier.

Long Haul's arm was around me again. "Listen – you gotta concentrate on leading us," he said. "We need you, Scrap. Ain't not one of us can do it like you." And then he gave me a _look,_ and I knew what was coming. "Don't frag it up over him, Scrap. It can't be the way you want. You know that."

Oh yes, I do know. How well do I know it? For how many aeons have I tried to accept it. And failed, miserably, every time.

"I just hoped it _might_ be different, this time," I said lamely.

His arms were around me, his lips against my neck, his body warm and hard against mine. "I think what you need is some leadership inspiration from your coordinator," he said. "If a certain medic hasn't worn _you_ out, that is."

The certain medic hadn't. Not quite. I decided Long Haul's was a good strategy. It wasn't filled with emotion and searing passion, like with Hook. But it was soothing, and conducive to functionality.

**Back at the Insecticon lair, Olympic National Park, Washington; somewhere in the forest ….**

Vividly aware of the sounds of the forest through newly tuned sensors, Kickback busied himself by the campfire, putting the finishing touches to the stewed pine and deer oil soup.

Seated in chairs over next to the habitation holes, Shrapnel was engrossed in a datapad and Bombshell had a human newspaper open, something he seemed to have taken an interest in of late, even to the point of picking one up on a regular basis.

Ordinarily, it would have irritated the cricket, them _sitting there like that_ expecting to be waited on hand and foot. Today, however, he felt unusually tolerant.

For Kickback was in excellent _health_. His antennae twitched in unison, streaming olfactory input in perfect balance. His arm was patched meticulously, his wing in perfect working order. He'd flown and harvested some fresh saplings at first light, enjoying new-found motor and sensory activation.

Yes, that medic was very, very good. Weird, and a bit intense – like Shrapnel could be sometimes – but he knew his pit. And he'd given Kickback that nice tasting _stuff._ Yes, it had high grade in it. Or something.

And much as Kickback had, over four million years, become extremely proficient at making organic based fuel, Cybertronian concoctions were a welcome change. Especially when Shrapnel was so stingy about parting with the Conehead spoils.

Feeling pleased, Kickback fetched the tureens and brought them to the soup-pot. Even better - he thought as he began to pour out the soup – there was that mech-nurse with the interesting legs and the cute tail thing.

Yes, that nurse. Little tingles went through Kickback's newly tuned sensors. It was a pity they'd left that medbay almost straight away. Bombshell had ordered it. _The word had spoken._ Well, Kickback intended seeing more of that nurse. And getting more of that _stuff._ When they got back to the base today, he'd go look for him.

The Insecticon's highly active imagination came into play. Kickback would show Scavenger his _collection_ on the sea bed, the one stashed under the coral reef near the edge of the abyss. He seemed like the sort who'd like that kind of thing – not like those minibots who were cute, but boring.

Then they would walk together. Scavenger would be rapt, by then. They'd get kinda _close._ They'd stop, and Kickback would kiss Scavenger; he'd check out that shovel thing, feel up that green aft. Then he would frag him, right there among the swirling corals.

As he finished filling the last tureen, Kickback let his spike harden, revelling in the prospect. He looked down at the casing which contained it. The very _large_ casing. That, of course, was his _pi_ _è_ _ce de resistance._ It had impressed the minibots, greatly. It could not fail to impress Scavenger.

A smile spread over the Insecticon's face. What fun, _doing it_ underwater! Not that he hadn't been hanging for it _anywhere_ , ever since they got back, a situation made worse by Shrapnel and Bombshell .

"You need to recuperate," they said. "Get your strength back …"

Well a few thoughts about that nurse, and his strength was well and truly back!

But for now, there was nothing for it but to contain his urges. Kickback put the soup pot aside, and was about to pick up the first tureen, when words floated over from the chairs; words which he had no problem deciphering, thanks to his newly tuned audials.

"So those Coneheads were a disappointment?" Bombshell was saying. He had put down his paper, which was folded at the side of the chair.

"Yes, yes," Shrapnel said, also putting down his datapad. "They are well built, and tougher than they look, look. There is a reason Megatron has them here, here. But the blue one is strange, and dangerous-ous. The others are stupid, they have no finesse-esse. And they are weak minded minded. Hence their need to put it over other species, species."

Bombshell sighed. "It was always a risk," he agreed. "As we well know, they weren't always allied to Megatron. I thought that their physical strength might produce good results, but perhaps clone amalgamation was not realistic. The blue one is odd indeed – studies may be more appropriate. My apologies for wasting your time, Shrapnel."

"Oh think nothing of it, Bombshell-shell. The experience was most useful useful."

A frown came on to Kickback's face. The very mention of those Coneheads, after what they did, in anything other than far more disparaging terms was bad enough. But on top of that - _this_ again! Did _every_ discussion about the propagation of the Insecticon species have to happen without him?

"Hmmnnn," Bombshell was saying. "Any more thoughts about the Seekers?"

"Too many issues issues," Shrapnel shook his head. "Starscream's attention is wholly on Megatron Megatron. He is bent on power, and were we ever to want rid of him this would be impossible. He has an indestructible core, core."

"I see, Bombshell said. "And his trine mates are also weak without him. I agree with your evaluation, Shrapnel."

What about _my_ evaluation? Kickback thought furiously. _Don't I have an opinion here?_

"Did you carry out a psychological profile on the medic, Hook, Hook?" Shrapnel was saying.

Bombshell sat back in his chair, crossing one leg over his thigh. He put his hands behind his head."Oh yes," he chuckled. "I had a feeling you might ask that question, Shrapnel. Hook – yes – he is well constructed and extraordinarily intelligent, meticulous and perfectionist. He is also loyal to his cause. His mind, however, is a mass of confusion and dark thoughts."

"Oh?" Clearly this was of huge interest.

"He has a high opinion of his abilities, but a fragile self esteem. He believes he is under recognized. He wants to be alone, yet needs connection. He fears the future. Even more, he fears death."

"Interesting-esting," Shrapnel mused. "All that may be to our advantage-antage. I feel the alleviation of his fears could be most enjoyable-oyable."

"Hmmnnn …" Bombshell wore a knowing smile.

Kickback had heard enough. Was it not sufficient that they'd excluded him, that he'd had to put up with Shrapnel fragging Coneheads and not him, and then pay for Shrapnel's ineptitude in handling the situation? Fixed he may be, but now, his good mood evaporating, Kickback remembered again the horrible feel of Thrust's hand on his wing, the foul smell of the other Conehead with the grey, dead looking face.

And there was no discussion about that side of things. No! It was all about the _program._ And now, Shrapnel had designs on the medic! Well what about Kickback's clones? If he connected with that nurse, couldn't the results be just as good?

He knew, of course. They didn't want Orthopteran clones. They thought Coleopteran ones were better. Superior. A superior form of Insecticon. Just because Shrapnel could channel lightning and Bombshell was a psychiatrist. Well what about his own abilities? Was he not a master hunter-spy, the one who sustained them during the long aeons of the Exodus?

Grabbing the tureen, Kickback stormed across the clearing, wings strumming crossly. He noted that they seemed to have shut up on this subject now they thought him within audio-shot. He banged the first tureen in front of Bombshell. Then, ignoring the questioning looks they gave him, he returned for the other tureen. Bringing it back, he hurled it in front of Shrapnel, hard enough for the contents to slop over the side.

"Your fuel, highness!" he snapped.

Bombshell frowned. "You seem rather out of sorts today, Kickback" he observed. "Are your repairs not as good as we thought?" He picked up the ladle and began to spoon in soup. Shrapnel did likewise. Slurping sounds followed.

"It's got nothing to do with my repairs!" Kickback exploded. "He turned to Shrapnel. "You think I can't hear what you're talking about, but I can, see? Your new cloning partner tuned up my senses!"

Bombshell paused, regarding him sternly over the edge of the tureen. "Now Kickback! You shouldn't jump to conclusions …."

"Bombshell-shell …" Shrapnel said, more gently. He turned to Kickback. "You have to understand, Kickback, that our decision has nothing to do with your species, species."

"Indeed!" Bombshell agreed. "It has everything to do with the greater affinity of Coleopteran software to merge with Cybertronian software."

"Bollocks!" Kickback didn't care that Bombshell hated his new word. "What about me and that nurse? He's smart, he is. I could tell. And strong, and agile. Him and me would make good clones. You just don't even wanna consider it! I'm just a lackey who makes soup and cleans up and is a nuisance cos I got _beaten_ up!" He folded his arms. "Even the Hive drones had a better deal than me!"

Slurping sounds came from the other two Insecticons. "Now there's no need to be melodramatic," Bombshell said.

Kickback threw his hands in the air. "I don't know why I bother! You don't listen anyway!"

He stumped off again. He supposed he should have expected this. But still he was full of fury and disappointment. Well he would see that nurse again. And he would have it off with him. And he _would_ store the data he gathered to do his own research into compatibilities.

That would all happen after he'd settled the score with the Coneheads. He didn't need _their_ help with that either.

Kickback returned with his tureen – although somehow he'd lost his appetite now, his good mood overridden by his insensitive team mates. He was sure Scavenger didn't have anything like these kinds of problems with those other mechs that were like him. What were they called – _Constructi…. Constructo …?_ Darn it! Now Kickback couldn't remember.

There was an uncomfortable silence punctuated by more slurping. "This soup is very good, good," Shrapnel said.

They always changed the subject. "There's not going to be any tonight Kickback said. "You'll have to get some energon off your 'friends.' I'm coming to the base today."

Bombshell put down his ladle. "You are _not_ coming to the base today, Kickback. You need rest. Besides, somebody must watch the camp."

At this, Kickback felt a little triumphant. "I've gotta get my wing checked as it happens!" He said. "And my antenna."

"Oh that is quite all right, right," Shrapnel said. "Hook informs me there is no need for further review, review."

Bombshell nodded. "That is correct, Kickback. And you are safer in your own surroundings."

So Hook and Shrapnel had 'chatted' already. About _him!_ Well that was just great. So Hook was in on it too.

"Anyway, I will be dealing with the Coneheads today, Kickback, Kickback," Shrapnel said, finishing his soup. "It's best you stay out of the way, way."

Out of the way! It was the story of his life. And why couldn't he fix up his own vendettas? It was the Coleopteran way, Bombshell would say. To do with the duty of the stronger species to protect the weaker. Kickback could not even bring himself to ask, so angry would he be about that answer.

And he bet he knew how Shrapnel would 'deal' with Thrust. Had he not said _the conehead had been useful_ – whatever else he had done or whether Shrapnel was done with him now?

Then Shrapnel would add Hook to his 'list.' Probably Scavenger as well. No wonder the mech had no energy for 'other things.' All this about 'recuperation' was rot. Even Shrapnel was not inexhaustible.

It was suddenly all too annoying. Kickback's optic caught the pile of dishes that Bombshell and Shrapnel had left behind in the last couple of days. They had to be joking. He shoved the half filled tureen to one side. "I'm going to spend the day in the forest!" He snapped.

They were still talking, even as Kickback collected his crossbow components and arrows from the hole.

"He imagines himself more capable alone than he is, is," Bombshell said. "I worry about him. He needs us. Though transforming Orthopteran clones may not be out of the question."

"I am pleased that you say that, that," Shrapnel said. "We have made use of Kickback's abilities much in the past, past. We can do so in this new era, era."

"Despite it not being in my programming I am curiously fond of him," Bombshell said. "And he is most talented."

"Yes-ess. Later I will make it up to him, him."

 _You won't get the chance!_ Kickback thought; But even though he made a deal of stumping off without saying a word more to either of them, his faceplates twisted into a little smile as he transformed.

Besides, it was a fact about Kickback that he never could harbour anger for long. Life moved on; there were more interesting pastimes. As he sped into the beckoning forest, he felt the benefit again of his superbly tuned systems, and was pleased to be here, and alive, and intact.

Let Shrapnel do what he had to do. With both the Coneheads and Hook.

...

**At the Decepticon Base...  
**

Scavenger wasn't happy.

He drifted round the base, as the old familiar and thoroughly unwelcome feeling settled in.

_He was no good._

It was hardly uncommon. The youngest of the Constructicons, and the last to join their ranks before the war, Scavenger had been taken on under the gestalt 'even number' policy. This, it was said, would provide equilibrium. Hook - it had been postulated - needed, as head component, to focus on Devastator's intent and outcomes. A coordinator was needed for the body.

Long Haul had gotten that job, moving from his right arm position and leaving it vacant. Scavenger, ever an admirer of the outfit, had - to his amazement - been found 'gestalt compatible.' He had applied successfully for the role.

It had seemed good. Scavenger was a geologist. He could, it was surmised, identify the materials they built with, complement Mixmaster in assisting with compositions. But war came, and Scavenger had found himself not part of a constructive gestalt, but a destructive one, his main skill deployment in bunker digging and basic military structures built from whatever was available.

He'd been disappointed. And they'd felt it. Worse, the expected equilibrium hadn't been there. Soon, Scavenger had felt they resented his presence, that they thought they'd made a mistake. He'd become certain that Devastator's declining performance was his fault. Now, he was sure that had he been better, they wouldn't have been spark separated, put into stasis when resources ran low.

Since reactivation, he'd had 'sessions' with Long Haul, Sometimes, these were helpful. But this morning, Scavenger was back in the doldrums. Part of this, he knew, was Bonecrusher – who had satiated him physically, but left him emotionally bereft. Boney was like that. _All sh-shove and no l-love,_ as Mixmaster liked to cackle. It had been bound to happen.

And it was also Hook and Scrapper. He could feel the tensions swirling through the bond. Mix said Scrapper was infatuated with Hook, had _feelings_ for him. He and Boney scoffed at that, fell about at the notion. They said Scrapper was a great leader but a soft touch; that he had a _thing_ about cranes. They mentioned the Autobot, Grapple. It was not _connish,_ they said; this crane thing.

Scavenger crossed his arms and hugged his chest, tail bouncing behind him. His feet dragged as he coasted past the control room once again. It wasn't that, he was sure. Somehow, it was his fault. Like everything else. That he could not understand _why_ was part of his ineptitude.

To take his mind from this train of thought, Scavenger thought of the medbay. He pictured Kickback again. It was a far more cheering thought.

For he was nice, that Insecticon. Even if he was another species. It wasn't just that he was cute, and a looker – though he was both those things. He'd leaned into Scavenger, and his antenna had tingled. He _liked_ Scavenger, the others said. Scavenger had felt _needed._ And that was something he hadn't felt in a long, long time.

Scavenger pictured him. Kickback looked quite frail, all injured like that, but it wasn't so. They were tough, those Insecticons. By all accounts, he'd put up quite a fight. The Coneheads hadn't gotten what they wanted.

Scavenger was pleased about that. The blue one was weird and scary. Whenever he was near, Scavenger felt worse than ever – even that maybe he should _end it all._ The other two were mean. They poked him and pulled his tail – knowing he wouldn't report it. Which he hadn't. As if he didn't already look a jerk.

He thought some more about Kickback. He had those _wings._ They were a nice shape, much nicer than flyers' wings. They twitched and strummed, and that was real cute. When Hook was in the ablution room, and before Kickback onlined, Scavenger had stroked one. It felt velvety smooth, and had sent tingles ricocheting through his relays, not as strong as with the antenna, but just as nice.

He would look good in the air, Scavenger surmised. Maybe they could fly together? Except that …. Scavenger hunched his shoulders again. He was hopeless at flying. It was another thing he bungled, frequently.

Not that he would see Kickback again.

"Insecticons need to recover in their own habitat," Bombshell had explained. Bombshell had slung the still anaesthetised cricket over his shoulder, and they'd departed. But Kickback, in upside down state, had opened one optic briefly. He'd reached out a hand and their fingers had brushed before Kickback was whisked away.

Yes. That had to be a good sign.

Hook hadn't seen it. Hook had been busy staring after Shrapnel, whose antlers had seemed to shimmer before the Insecticons turned the corner and went out of sight. Scavenger reckoned he'd done that on purpose. He'd been eyeing Hook up all night, and Hook didn't seem to mind.

Hook's energy field had flared - for the third time that night! Scavenger reckoned he liked Shrapnel too. And that wasn't really good, because Scrapper would get jealous – like he did over First Aid. And others. But it _was_ rather exciting.

They'd both stared after the Insecticons. And Scavenger had felt Hook's arousal, and had found that exciting, Hook liking Shrapnel. He'd stood much closer than usual to Hook, because he'd felt a sort of _kinship_ with him. Besides, he wanted to frag, after being so close to Kickback. Hook was good at fragging. Better than Bonecrusher, Scavenger secretly thought. And, when it was over, sometimes Hook held him close.

Thinking of the Insecticon, and Hook, and fragging, sent sensations jangling again. Bonecrusher. Yes – maybe he should look for him again. That had taken the edge off things. Even if he did wish it were Hook, and know that Boney also wished _he_ was Hook, and even if Bonecrusher did _go off_ after wards and not want to _snuggle._

But a glimpse through the rec room door showed Bonecrusher otherwise entertained. Over the back of the settee, a mixing barrel was in view. It spun wildly, as its owner pumped up and down; groans sounded from the mech underneath him.

And Bonecrusher wasn't groaning in the aggro way like when he went at it with Scavenger; but in an erotic, sensuous way – the only time he was like that. When he and Mix did the potions.

A human TV blared in front of them. Disappointed, Scavenger closed the door. He'd lost the mood for fragging.

From further down the corridor came the clank of a bucket; Long Haul, cleaning. He'd have quite liked to talk to Long Haul. But Long Haul wouldn't be into that. He'd want Scavenger to help, and he'd _go on_ about being left with all the chores. Scavenger did not even think he could face that.

Then Scavenger had an idea. Why couldn't he go see Scrapper? Perhaps it _was_ this Hook thing that made him unhappy. Perhaps Scavenger could cheer him up.

Scrapper, however, was busy. Papers and data were stacked to one side, while he wrote in a journal of sorts. Scavenger glimpsed complicated designs, knew they were for the Transfixatron. Scrapper did not like to be disturbed in the middle of such a task. Especially in this mood.

Scavenger retreated, listless and dejected. But then, he had another idea. _Hook._ He was tense, too. And if Scrapper wasn't with him, and Long Haul wasn't, and Bonecrusher or Mixmaster weren't either, then Hook must be alone.

Maybe Scavenger could _relax_ him? Yes – perhaps they could talk about the Insecticons.

Feeling more positive, Scavenger headed for the medbay. Yes – he could ask about their _workings._ He'd pretend a 'scientific' interest. Yes – he and Hook had _things in common._

And Hook _was_ a good frag.

…..

Agitated, Hook switched off the 3D image of Shrapnel's schematics which hovered in front of the white screen. Primus forbid that he should feel like this about a _patient._

No – Shrapnel wasn't a patient. Not yet. But that wasn't the point! The thing was just down right – mesmerizing. It made him want to go do Scrapper again. And that wasn't a good idea. Scrapper had that 'look,' that need. That wasn't good for the gestalt - much as it was for Hook's ego.

Instead, Hook thought back to the conversation, the one he'd had whilst Scavenger had cleaned up. He'd gone into the ablution room, and found Shrapnel beside him. Not washing, but watching.

"Er – I think Kickback should be fine," he'd said. "He's very well put together. His self repairs will cope admirably. I shouldn't need to see him."

That was the _stupidest thing to say._ Why couldn't he have given himself a reason to see Shrapnel again?

The Insecticon had stood there, all dark face and gleaming antlers, with that silent power, that confidence – and that irresistible yet intangible danger, that tantalising sense of the unknown. "I have not seen you before, before?" he'd said. "You were not at the oil rig that day, day?"

Hook knew of the incident. "My colleagues and I are – a recent addition to the Cause here." Hook had chosen the words carefully.

Shrapnel had nodded. "Ah yes, in the war, many like you at the start, start. Combiner mechs, mechs. Not so many left at the end, end."

"That's right." Hook had said, trying to ignore the uncomfortable prickle to his circuits. He'd wondered how Shrapnel knew this, what he'd done during the war. Hook had never seen him in action.

Water had splashed. The Insecticon had lingered. Hook's hands had been well cleaned by then, but he'd found himself not wanting Shrapnel to leave. Besides, Shrapnel had been staring at his fingers as though he liked what he saw, and Hook had liked that.

"You're – not from this part of the galaxy. Or the Cybertronian locality?" Hook had asked, not knowing what else to say, and wishing that 'small talk' – which Hook was notoriously bad at – could be somehow rendered unnecessary.

"No – we are Pleiadians, Pleiadians …." The second word had come out in that exotic foreign lilt. Hook had shivered.

"How did you – er - get to Cybertron?"

"Space travel, travel. Warp gates, gates."

Then Hook had felt truly stupid. _How else would they have done it?_ If there was any sure way to disinterest the Insecticon, this was surely it. He'd decided that maybe it was time he got back to his patient.

But Shrapnel had been still standing there, his antlers sparkling again with that odd blue scintillation.

"Does it hurt, hurt?" he'd asked.

Hook had been puzzled. "What?" he'd asked.

"Spark seperation-ation?"

Hook knew how surprised - and shocked - he must have looked. _How does he know?_

"Bombshell could tell, tell," Shrapnel had said. "He knows these things, things. Your energy is raw and new. Body and spark are recently joined, joined."

Hook had stared at him. "It doesn't hurt," he'd said. "There's fear before it happens, of not ever onlining again. But once it's done? There's just – nothing. That is - until you're onlined again. Then it's like it only just happened. So no, it doesn't hurt, its just – uh –uh …"

He had turned away, too engulfed by the familiar sickening sensations to even be embarrassed at what he'd just come out with, a subject which – Primus forbid – he didn't even broach with his team mates.

"Extinct forever, forever. This would be – unacceptable -able." Shrapnel had whispered. "It does not have to be that way, way."

 _It's like he's reading my mind._ Their optics had met, and the antlers had shimmered. Hook had had a barely controllable urge to seize Shrapnel and hug him closely; to be in the midst of those antlers and the world of the Insecticons which seemed curiously safe and free of fear.

"It will be all right, right." Shrapnel had whispered. And Hook had felt a sharp stab of emotion in his spark.

At that point, Bombshell had appeared, saying that Kickback's self-repairs were at a level whereby he could be transported back to the forest. Shrapnel had nodded. He had looked intensely at Hook, and had seemed filled with nascent, raw energy and yet older, experienced in many secret things.

Hook's circuits had burned, hotly. Never in all his existence had he wanted anything as much as Shrapnel right at that moment.

Before they left, Shrapnel had opened an arm compartment and extracted a small chip.

"My schematics -atics," he'd explained. "You may study me, me."

'Uh – yeah!" Hook had been speechless, unable to do anything but stare at the thing, stunned by it and the conversation, as the Insecticons readied to depart. Then Scavenger had been there, and Scavenger looked all 'lit up,' and that was because of Kickback, who also had had an 'effect.' That much was obvious.

The Insecticons had left. Scavenger had lingered in the medbay. Hook could have had him, easily – not that one couldn't _always_ have Scavenger easily. Just as with Scrapper. But he had needed – burned with an unrequited need - to look at the schematics.

First, he'd closed off the gestalt bond.

Shrapnel's workings hadn't disappointed. So un-Cybertronian, so exotic, Hook had reeled at the complex spark, intricate circuits and finely tuned sensor net. And he'd understood, with a thrill, the Insecticon's power; for Shrapnel's circuits were specially designed, insulated to absorb tremendous levels of energy. He stored or channelled this. Through the antlers. Which were also elaborate sensors.

_No wonder he is so confident. And he truly is deadly. He keeps this carefully in check. But it if were unleashed …_

Hook had wiped his helm, letting his fans kick in. Then, he had kept working, studying the catalytic converters, the special synthesizers that broke down raw material into high grade, processed energon. Hook recalled, now. During the war, Megatron had used it as fuel. Hook had pondered on that. It was euphoric - allegedly - as well as hyper-energising. He wondered, with another rush of sensation, how it would taste.

Such _amazing_ qualities all round! How much Hook had wanted Shrapnel to be there, non-virtual, right then. _So much it hurt._ He'd looked at the image again; and he'd not been able to help it, _he just could not stop from looking at_ the thing he'd so far avoided looking at – the interface equipment.

Hook had gone weak at the complex range of connectors. And - oh Primus forbid - he did not think he had ever seen, anywhere in the universe, a spike of those dimensions. That was the last straw. He'd been able to stand it no longer. He had gone in search of Scrapper.

He'd fragged Scrapper again and again. And all the while, through every build up and hovering on the brink of cataclysmic release, he'd thought not of loading trays and green panels, but of bolts of lightning and massive charges, of being filled with searing heat, writhing in the burn of his circuits.

The overloads had been explosive. He'd finished one, only to want another.

It had gone on and on - and on. Scrapper's pleasure had been obvious. Hook's guilt had too. He'd left in the end – and come back to medbay. Now he could not bear to look at the image again. Instead, he analysed the data he'd collected, making sketches.

…

There was someone at the door. Hook did not answer. The mech persisted with the buzzer. Was it team? Hook opened the bond. Scavenger.

Ordinarily, that might have been irritating. Hook was only so good at dishing out the kind of attention the mech seemed to crave. But the bond indicated something else. _Horny_ Scavenger.

Perfect! A sigh of relief escaped Hook. A guilt-free release; it was just what he needed. /Come in!/ he commed, hearing the huskiness, the seductiveness in his own voice.

The door opened, and Scavenger sauntered through it. He regarded Hook with a look most perfectly welcome: saucy, flirtatious, and full of needy promise. His tail bounced behind him. "What are you doing?"

Hook smiled, already itching for his team mate. He wanted to feel the treads on Scavenger's legs, feel the smooth metal of his shovel shaft. In the back of his processor, antlers and lightning still hovered. His fingers twitched unashamedly as his fans whirred. "Seeing as how the fixing of Insecticons looks inevitable here, I'm doing a little research."

Scavenger leaned over. His arm brushed Hook's. Heat came off him, his fans whirring softly as he looked at the drawings. The fans grew louder. He giggled. "Is that why you're studying that? Just so you can fix him?"

Charge swelled in Hook's circuits. His hand wandered to caress Scavenger's thigh, fingers tracing along the treads. They thrummed with the faint smell of hot rubber. "Not entirely."

Scavenger moved closer. Hook's intakes hitched as his energy field released, momentarily lowering the pressure. Scavenger shivered. "Do you have any like Kickback?" He giggled. His hand strayed on to Hook's shoulder, fingers playing with the extensor joints. They found their way to his crane shaft and ran softly down it.

That would have been more than enough. But Scavenger's attraction for the other Insecticon also surged through Hook, mingling with his own fierce desire. Charge seared, swelling his circuits. _"It could be arranged…."_

Hook's intakes became raspy. His hand caressed Scavenger's aft, fingers dipping into seams. Scavenger's arousal both for himself and Kickback began to bombard him, peaking the charge to uncomfortable levels. His spike stiffened and throbbed. "Come here!" he pulled Scavenger into his lap.

The need which burned in the other's optics was exquisite, as was the lust evident in the younger face. Scavenger straddled him, his tail arched behind. Hook caught it and squeezed the shaft, then ran his hand along the smooth metal. The other hand grabbed chunks of aft.

"Frag that's nice!" Scavenger gasped as he shivered, squirming his pelvis hard. His fingers dug into Hook's shoulders as Hook's hands slid up and down.

Heat and charge crackled. Oh yes, it was _more than_ nice. Hook pushed Scavenger back and let his spike emerge, his fingers feeling up the purple thighs as the spike stood up between them. "Haven't done you for a while .." His voice was harsh and raspy. He pulled Scavenger into a kiss.

Scavenger's mouth was hungry on his, glossa probing with a need which echoed his own. He squirmed against Hook's spike, sending more charge rushing. Hook felt hot wetness at the base of his spike as Scavenger's valve cover opened, felt Scavenger's pulsing energy field as the other Constructicon ground against him.

Hook could not wait. Breaking the kiss, he pushed Scavenger's hips up so the valve rim was against his spike tip. Then it seemed that Scavenger's face merged with other images, black and purple, a beautiful dark face, antlers, and an immeasurably massive energy field.

Hook's optics offlined. With a grunt, he yanked at Scavenger's hips, pulling him roughly on to the spike.

Instantly he filled Scavenger, groaning loudly at the peak of promise that bordered on pain. He thrust up hard and deep, unable to stop himself, and came swiftly to overload, his cry echoing as his spike discharged hard.

Scavenger came with him, adding his own cries, his fingers grasping handfuls of metal. Hook gripped him, peaking and releasing again, relishing the feel of Scavenger's valve clenching around him.

As the waves of overload swept through, they stayed like that, Scavenger moving softly up and down. "Awesome," Scavenger whispered. _"You're_ awesome, Hook." And it was then – before Hook could even gather his senses to answer - that the door opened.

There was an uncomfortable silence. "Can I remind both of you that there's work to be done!"

Hook onlined his optics. Scrapper's face was as cold and furious as his voice.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scrapper and Hook argue, Scrapper unable to control his jealousy and Hook, the frustrations with his situation. Meanwhile Shrapnel exects his own brand of revenge on Thrust, and Long Haul tells Scavenger to get some fresh air.
> 
> *Warnings:* This story contains Insecticon/Constructicon sex, sticky, P&P, tactile, oral. Explicit - please don't read if you don't like sticky. Also has a drug use and energon drinking in a quite vampiric style which some may not like. Notions of procreation, of the cloning type. Definitely not mechpreg, however.  
> Although this fic has some dark 'moments,' I'm also warning for fluff/angst/romance - and crack.
> 
> This chapter contains angst, violence, prostitution and noncon sex

  **PART 3**  


** MIDDAY   
**

**From the Journal of Scrapper, Constructicon Leader, Decepticon Command Earth Contingent 1984.**

I caught Hook with Scavenger this morning.

Hook wore a guilty look, but a satisfied one. I was convinced I'd found the true source of his previous desires. I was surprised, hurt - and furious. It showed.

He went straight on the defensive. "Oh come on, it was just a one-off!" he said, after Scavenger had made himself scarce.

"Intra-team sessions need to be scheduled," I snapped.

I tried not to show how much I knew the hypocrisy in this statement, the fact that I lacked the courage of my convictions; that this was not the reason.

He didn't buy it. "Oh yes of course," he said, smiling that smile he always does when he knows he's got the better of me. "All that recently with Bonecrusher and Mix and Scavenger. And you and Longhaul. That's been very _scheduled_. Hasn't it?"

"I'm working on things," I said. "In the meantime, I can't have you singling anyone out."

He threw his hands in the air. "I felt like a frag. Scav was there. Just like he's there when anyone wants a frag. At least he's useful in that respect."

That made me boil inside. "You know how important team order is!" I hissed. "And you know about Scav's vulnerabilities. He'll get attached. We'll get unbalanced."

"And what – so Bonecrusher's allowed to risk that, but I'm not?"

He was right, of course. My sheer hypocrisy burned inside. But I wasn't going to admit that. I did my best to fix him with a firm, leader-like stare.

A darkening smirk came on to his face. "You have to admit, this is rich, Scrapper. It seemed pretty much like you were 'singling me out' yesterday."

"It's different," I said matter-of-factly. "I'm your leader. It makes sense for myself and Devastator's head component to be strongly united." I said this so convincingly I almost believed it myself. Almost.

Hook didn't. "No!" he said. "That's not it." He pointed a finger at me. "This has nothing to do with Devastator. _You_ want a 'relationship.' Nothing has changed."

It hadn't, of course. And neither had the ache of disappointment; another stark illustration of what he felt – or rather _didn't_ feel. "Can't we just concentrate on each other for the time being?" I said. "It's important, Hook. I don't want us back in stasis."

I could not have said a worse thing. His face went livid. I could feel how much that frightens him. Just because he's like this doesn't mean I don't feel intensely what's really going on for him. There's a reason Hook's a medic. It interests him, yes. It's challenging. He also hopes that someday he'll find a way to extend his time in this universe. Indefinitely.

That's what makes this so hard.

"We are _not_ going back in stasis!" He shouted.

"Look," I said, "if we work together on this we have nothing to worry about."

I found him glaring at me, his expression still furious. "All right," he snarled. "Let's get a few things straight. One, I don't want to even think like that. Two, you and me _getting it on_ to the exclusion of everyone else isn't gonna make a blind bit of difference and three …"

He was pointing at me again. "You are a hypocrite, Scrapper! If that orange Autobot crane shows up – _and you know who I'm talking about_ – it will be like this conversation never happened!"

Well, I might have expected that. Attack, with Hook, is always the best defence, a sure-fire means of manoeuvring the spotlight away from himself.

"Don't bring him into it!" I snapped. Although, again, he had a point. And it brought on something else - a sly satisfaction that seeped through my awareness circuits. If Hook was still jealous of Grapple, it meant I meant something to Hook.

I did not let this show, however. And I tried to be as businesslike as possible. "Let's stick to the point," I said. "We need to get this Transfixatron done in time."

He threw his hands up again. "The Transfixatron! Like the Evaporator and the Pulveriser and more recently, the Power Transference Device. Like everything else that's going on here. Another futile quest!"

Now that really alarmed me. "For Primus' sake watch your thoughts!" I hissed. "That sort of stuff really _will_ land us back in stasis!" For being Shockwave's creation, Soundwave cannot read us as well as other Decepticons, but that does not mean that he cannot decipher us at all.

Hook knew this; for he sat down, and had his head in his hands. I felt the depression descend again, the blackness that has been with him since our awakening. "I'm _sorry,"_ he said, "I just have to keep reminding myself there's more to life than this. _Don't I?"_

It's so bleak, and he's so empty, so full of bitter grief that he can't get things right, can't get the solutions he wants. I can't tell you how much it hurts. I just wanted, as always, to hold him and tell him things will be all right. But I can't. He doesn't believe me. And he won't let me anyway. If I had tried that then he would have shoved me away.

Instead, I feigned cheerfulness, far beyond the frail filament of optimism I felt. "It will get better," I said, "Once we get established, we will have more freedom. When that happens, then spontaneous team interface shouldn't be a problem at all!" I even managed a chuckle.

But he looked no happier. There was a long silence. Then he spoke, slowly. "I don't know if I can wait that long," he said, and his voice was barely more than a whisper. "I don't know if I can handle this any more at all. The uncertainty. Your _rules,_ Scrapper. I need a change. Now."

The words pierced me like a shard of ice. Never had he gone this far. Never before had the coldness, the emptiness which filled my spark been so intense.

And then, I was angry. How could he say such a thing? And why did he have to be like this? His obtuseness, his helplessness in being unhelped, he made no effort. His - _depression_ \- he had himself to blame. At that moment, I had had enough of him too.

"Well fine," I snapped. "You're impossible to deal with. You put us all in danger, you selfish piece of pit. And you know what? If Grapple shows up – I might just replace you."

I never meant to say that. Truly I didn't. I won't say I don't have feelings for the other crane. A lot of feelings. But they're different, based on other things. Whatever else, Grapple wouldn't, _couldn't_ ever replace Hook.

Hook was fuming, boiling with hurt and anger. Gathering up the pile of pads on the side, he ripped a datachip from the projector. At that moment, I think he hated me, and his hate was like a sickening, bottomless pit. I saw that the pads bore pictures on Insecticons. So much for that idea of a road to salvation.

His face was a furious mask. "Do what you like!" he snarled. And then he stormed from the room.

My spark burned. I nearly went after him. But I didn't. We'd have come to blows if I'd done that, I'm sure. It's happened before. I never meant to hurt him. I don't know what to do now.

….

 **Forest,** **Olympic National Park, Washington  USA**

Sunlight slanted through the forest as Kickback flitted his way between the thickets.

A good hunt was just what he needed. For despite the aeons since the Invasion, Kickback had never lost touch with the core function he had held on Electraan, the fourteenth world of the Pleiadian system: that of hunter extraordinaire, and spy.

Not that there was prey as challenging - or tasty - as Arachnid infiltrators here. Or what they encountered after the Exodus, on their long trek to Quintessa. Some of the larger Earth beasts hadn't been too bad; unfortunate that the Insecticons had made them mostly extinct. In recent times, he'd brought down human devices; planes and helicopters. These were tasty too.

But not any more. "Consuming humans will attract the unwelcome attentions of the Autobots. Consuming their transportation will appear to the Decepticons like cannibalism," Bombshell had said. "We have had enough trouble in the past with our reputation and we don't _need_ to consume either. It will not do to put either offside. For now."

That was after he and Shrapnel had devoured his _catchings._ Kickback grew cross again, thinking ofthem _._ No matter what they'd said, they still made all these _rules._ Then left him out. They didn't appreciate the full extent to which he, Kickback, had seen that their trio never suffered the fate of the hivers, had affirmed the continuation of their species in the quadrant.

Light dappled the tree trunks, and the carpet of pine needles below. Ahead, the forest grew thicker, its depths beckoning. No, he would not think like this today. He must be _positive._ Plans were afoot for a colony. That was exciting – even if Bombshell's attitude was annoying. In six or so million years they'd never established one. They could well do that now. And he'd get his clones in there – somehow.

The light dimmed as the canopy grew thicker. The ground between the trees became boggy, patched with dark puddles and pools. Kickback forgot the Coleopterans, soon reaching the place he'd been aiming for: a lagoon deep in the thickets.

The lagoon was in a clearing. Its base sloped gently up and away, so it was deep this side near the bank but became shallow, water giving way to mud some distance away. Beyond, a wooded hill rose steeply.

The opaque water rippled from time to time. Either end, gnarled trees and creepers hung like wraiths. It was _something_ like Demon Swamp, where they had lived – colder, of course, and the vegetation much less lush. And no crocodiles, or eels, or turtles. That was algae, making the ripples.

 _Demon Swamp._ Ah yes, Kickback missed that. The rainforest was like his homeworld. Kickback's spark gave a small pang. He still missed Electraan. Even after all this time. That they weren't at Demon was the Decepticons' fault. Morons like that Thrust. They'd spoiled the tranquillity, the Insecticon monopoly.

That made Kickback cross again. Anti-Decepticon feelings stormed through his processor. But then, he remembered that Scavenger was one. He smiled to himself. Ah yes – sexy legs. Perhaps he'd clean him a skull today? Those from the large antlered beasts that drank here were almost as good as the crocodiles'.

He really did hope he could show the Constructicon his crystal collection, at least. And his skulls.

Kickback skimmed across the water, then did a quick circuit, checking for unwelcome signatures. There were none. He was alone, a sole mechanical beast in a rich organic realm, light years from his origins, yet ever close in spirit.

Landing, he transformed. Opening his arm compartment, he removed the three components. Deftly, he assembled the crossbow. With a click, he fitted the explosive tip he'd nicked from the Decepticon armoury. He snickered. It would made a mess. But it was more fun. It just meant picking up the bits.

Holding the assembled object up to the light, he admired it. He supposed these weapons, along with energon and the nurse, made up for the 'down' sides to the Decepticon presence.

Holding the weapon, Kickback assumed a pose among the trees, his Insecticon senses acutely trained across the water. Like a statue he waited in the dank gloom, the slight twitch to his antenna the only movement to give him away.

...

**Meanwhile at the Decepticon Base....**

Shrapnel's processor whirred with purpose and plans. Yet, as he made his way towards the Conehead quarters, a calm resolve hung over the Coleopteran. Only his body, taut with the kind of tension present in a cat waiting to spring would, to another Insecticon, have given away his intent. That and his antlers, which shimmered with deliberately accumulated charge.

The Insecticon spared a moment to ponder the status quo, allowing himself a few fond thoughts about Kickback. He did hope the Orthopteran had overheard him talking to Bombshell. And he really would make it up. When he'd attended to the rest of the business.

For now, it was time for the first item on the agenda. As his feet clanked on the metal floor, the ghost of a smile creased the dark, beautiful face. He had called Thrust earlier. The red Conehead had, as usual, played beautifully into his hands.

"Your little friend didn't put out," the moron had growled. "So y'know what that means, bug!"

Shrapnel had feigned the usual fear and intimidation. "I do, do. I must apologise-ise. I will be there at all speed to service your needs, needs."

"Well make it quick. I don't feel like waiting."

Oh how well Shrapnel had acted this out; so well that Thrust had not believed what had happened at the oil rig, before the Coneheads arrived. He thought the Seekers were exaggerating wildly, 'stirring things up,' trying to justify their own failures. The consequent rift in Decepticon Air Command was an unforseen little bonus.

Shrapnel thought of the Conehead. Thrust would be working himself up by now, a seething mass of ugly excitement about what was to come. He would be preparing to lunge at Shrapnel, to 'smack the Insecticon around' a bit; to land some blows, make a few requests for poses and actions he thought were degrading. He'd be picturing how he'd shove the Insecticon face down, and ram himself in.

Shrapnel smiled to himself. Thrust's spike was as disappointing as the rest of him. But that had mattered not; any more than did pain, or rape, or shame. These were simply not part of the equation – or not the Insecticon one.

The only thing that mattered was that Thrust – at the height of his antics - rammed his conventional connector into one of Shrapnel's data ports. This he invariably did, believing it 'overwhelming.' Shrapnel had done nothing to suggest otherwise.

For it wasn't that Shrapnel could not have overpowered Thrust. Such would have been easy. But for Shrapnel to plug into _him_ would have yielded nothing; for the fear would have closed his firewalls. Beneath the façade, the Conehead was a coward.

Plugged into Shrapnel, however, copious data poured from Thrust, becoming more so the more turned on he got. Data about _many things._ Most _useful_ things. All of which Shrapnel stored, carefully, and later gave to Bombshell.

The 'turning on' had been the key. Shrapnel would struggle, and 'give in.' He would make out that it hurt; that he had been 'broken.' Thrust would be ecstatic. Shrapnel would appear weak and vulnerable, transmitting back an impression of terror. Thrust loved this. It brought him swiftly to overload.

As more useful data streamed in, Shrapnel would keep up the 'act,' before overloading himself, something he could do quite easily on demand and with little real stimulation. Thrust would consider himself a star. Shrapnel would tremble and appear shattered, thanking him. It guaranteed another session, and more data.

He really had no idea.

Shrapnel considered for a moment keeping the role. They'd gotten much from this routine, so enjoyed by all the Coneheads. The pay was _pleasing._ Nice energon, freedom of the Conehead quarters, a wealth of information; even if the secrets of Dirge's success - that strange quality which infused Cybertronian processors with dread - _had_ remained tantalizingly out of reach.

Rejecting it may mean relocation - far from the Decepticon base.

But no. There was Kickback to consider - and the Coleopteran Way would not make anything but retribution comfortable. Besides – he thought with a little surge – this would be fun. Much as it was satisfying to so completely have it over the Coneheads, it had lately become rather boring. Shrapnel needed a _real_ energy release. And the forest was too cold anyway.

When he was done here, Shrapnel would frag someone who appreciated the true range of Coleopteran talents. And gather data in a much more pleasurable way ….

Shrapnel arrived at the door. It was a silly, fortified device which Shrapnel could only assume was designed to make Thrust look 'imposing.' Such a resounding failure was almost sad to see. But Coneheads seemed as immune to the laughter of the Seekers as to the powers of the Insecticons.

Thinking that Thrust really was far too much of a fool for the Program, Shrapnel rang the buzzer. The Way would prevail. Thrust was about to learn that harm inflicted on Insecticons invariably came back – a hundred times as hard.

Today, Shrapnel did not use his usual nervous and subservient tone as soon as Thrust responded. Nevertheless, Thrust let him in. Immediately.

 _Lust – the great truth obfuscator_ , Shrapnel thought. How Cybertronians let it rule their lives. If the Conehead had paid just a smidgen of attention, diverted his thoughts from his spike and connector just for a microsecond, he would have known something was _different,_ at least.

But Thrust did know, soon after. Shrapnel wasted no time. There was a hum, as he activated charge, a sharp crackle as his antlers readied to channel. The Conehead got halfway across the room before the lecherous leer disappeared – abruptly. A blinding flash was followed by a scream of pain and surprise, as the room plunged into darkness.

It was a small bolt. A trifling effort, comparatively speaking. But the Conehead got the message.

Unprepared and with optics shorted, Thrust's instinct was to blunder for the door. Another bolt seared the lock and he screamed again, pulling his hand away.

Shrapnel remained calmly in the same spot. "We play by Insecticon rules today, today," he said.

A visible shudder went through Thrust. He groped wildly, stumbling, his cone banging into the striplight. Terrified optics stared, broken, seeing nothing; the horrified realization of one who realizes that rumours it was convenient to ignore are actually true, and about to become so with painful vengeance.

All the same, he attempted to talk his way out. "Now c'mon, it wasn't my fault," he cried. "It was Ramjet. He got – carried away. I was just having a bit o'fun!"

Shrapnel laughed, softly. The Conehead could not have made it worse. To attack a weaker one was one thing, but to shirk responsibility? It was the ultimate loss of face, worthy of nothing but contempt.

The ugly face was desperate. "Look - we can sort this," he was squawking. "What if I just pay you, and we don't do nothin'? I won't tell. Or about that just now!"

"I am sorry, but my coding would not permit this this." Shrapnel cocked his head on one side. "Perhaps you should not look at this as personal Thrust, Thrust. Your services have been useful-ful. But unfortunately, changes must be made, a message sent, sent. Don't frag with the Insecticons-icons. Be cheered, some Cybertronians _enjoy_ this, this."

Although Thrust wasn't one of them. Of that, Shrapnel was certain.

And then, Shrapnel was done with talking. There was a sharp hum, a fritzing of electricity before a powerful bolt knocked Thrust to the ground. Then, Shrapnel was upon him, over him, ripping open his interface panel, plugging forcefully in.

Grabbing Thrust's hands, he pinned them behind his head. The other hand went over the Conehead's mouth as Shrapnel gathered his energy – then surged. Thousands of volts hammered into the Conehead's body.

The body lit up, flashing like a red beacon, Thrust screamed; and screamed again, his efforts muffled in Shrapnel's hand and the crackling static. The air stung, acrid with sulphur and singed circuitry.

Then Thrust was flailing, uselessly, black smoke rising from the edge of his fuselage. "Please…" he whimpered, his charred form jerking spasmodically. Shattered optics stared from a burned face under a blackened nosecone.

Shrapnel didn't acquiesce. He'd needed that. The Way was satisfied, his coding already more settled. Besides which, all the passive stuff - and thinking of that medic – really had built up charges he hadn't even known were accumulating. That, and not doing Kickback.

 _Very remiss and un-self aware_ , Shrapnel reproached himself. Bombshell would be disappointed. Well, he would fix things up now. Besides, it would save risking damage to Hook.

"Please …" Thrust was whimpering again.

Shrapnel smiled down at his victim. "Patience, patience," he said. "We have a little way to go yet, yet."

…..

Soundwave, passing the Coneheads' quarters, was surprised to hear conduit curdling screams, accompanied by zapping sounds. It was hard to determine the cause as pleasure or pain. Blue light flashed under the door.

The telepath paused, and scanned. It was the Conehead Thrust, and an Insecticon. The Conehead was distressed; in pain. Whereas the Insecticon? Soundwave could not read him at all.

Not even 'not very well' as with the Constructicons. Not at all.

More yells, and thudding sounds. A strong smell of burning. Soundwave chuckled. He disliked the Coneheads intensely, had disagreed utterly with retrieving them from storage. It mattered not if Shrapnel dispatched one now. Soundwave would consider it a favour.

He thought of the other Insecticon, Bombshell. His cerebroshell technology was most interesting, as was the mech himself. Quintesson modified. Impressive.

With a slight huff, the telepath raised an optic ridge and moved on. He must continue to advocate alliance with the Insecticons. This would be useful.

…

Scavenger shouldn't have listened. "Ain't a good idea to eavesdrop, kiddo. Y'almost always hear stuff you don't wanna hear." Longhaul had said. No – he shouldn't have listened, and now he only had himself to blame for having what he already knew confirmed – that he was nothing more than 'entertainment' when they felt like it.

That Hook thought this stung especially. _That_ – what they just did – didn't it mean anything? Didn't their newfound 'kinship' count for _something?_ Obviously not. Worse, all Scavenger had done was cause more trouble between Hook and Scrapper.

That awful shouting. Scavenger's energon chamber churned at the memory. Then Scrapper had talked about _replacing_ Hook. _He wouldn't really do that, would he?_

The door had opened and Hook had stormed out, his face livid. Scavenger had shrunk into an alcove. Scrapper came soon after. Scrapper's face was ashen, his optics liquidy. Neither had seen him.

Devastated, Scavenger had snuck back to his room. Now, as the usual collection of sea creatures swirled outside the window, he sat miserably on the berth, his tail tucked beside him. This was _all_ his fault.

"There y'are!"

Scavenger looked up to see Long Haul in the doorway, his expression grim. Scavenger hung his head. This was bad. And he didn't have to tell Long Haul he'd disobeyed his orders, hadn't cleaned the corridor as asked. Long Haul would already know.

But Long Haul didn't chastise him. Instead, he came and sat beside him. There was a long silence as the truck stared across at the window. Long Haul sighed.

"You know what the problem is?" he said. _"This_ place. Ain't no good, us couped in here. Be so much better when we got us a place on land. In the meantime, we oughtta get out more."

Scavenger nodded . He supposed that was right. He failed to see how it figured momentously – beside his catastrophic contributions, his ineptitude. But it was worth considering.

"Yeah, it doesn't help," he muttered.

Long Haul was looking at him. Not unkindly. "Tell you what, why don't you get some fresh air? You could go for a fly." He raised his gaze upward. "You don't wanna get caught up in their drama, believe me. That's _my_ job."

He sighed again. "Y'know - it's always Long Haul to the rescue. _Good old truck'll sort it._ What I put up with? Scrapper don't pay me a fraction of what I'm worth!"

But Scavenger was reeling, barely able to control the twisting in his circuits as awful truths bombarded his processor. _He's trying to get rid of me!_ This had to be the case. _He knows its all my fault. And everyone knows I'm no good at flying._

"I'm – er – not very good on my own out there," he whimpered. "I'll crash." And then he was overwhelmed with the need to throw himself on Long Haul's mercy. "Look, I-I'm sorry!" He stammered. "I know I shouldn't have faced with Hook. It's just that – well he was there, and I wanted it, and so did he, and we …."

Longhaul patted his arm. "You ain't done nothin' wrong," he said. "And I ain't sendin' you on a _mission of no return_ , either, you paranoid idiot."

Scavenger relaxed. Of course Long Haul had read him through the bond. Long Haul was best out of all of them for that. And Scavenger believed him. One thing about Long Haul, he didn't tell lies. _What you see is what you get._

Long Haul stood up. "I'm serious!" he gestured to the window. "It's a nice day up there. I'd join you if I didn't have _other things_ to deal with."

Scavenger did feel better. But his shoulders still hunched. "I don't really like flying," he protested.

"Garbage! It'll do you good." Long Haul's hand was on his shoulder. "There's an island near here – go dig some holes. Now get your aft outta here."

Long Haul had made up his mind. _The word had spoken._ It wasn't a request.

...

In his quarters, Hook removed another picture from the green wall. Determinedly, he stuffed it into the open crate already half full of paraphernalia on the purple-covered berth.

This was _it._ First Aid had been right. He _was_ worth more than this, had always been worth more. Well - now Scrapper's feelings were clear, Hook would leave. He would inform Megatron he was 'going out on his own' – and he wasn't hanging in to watch that crane. Oh no way. He would get off this Primus-forsaken rock and return to Cybertron.

Too bad if Megatron bucked up about the Autobot. Scrapper should have thought of that.

Yes! This was just the excuse Hook had needed, the final push to make him make the move. He would free himself from the fetters of having to play in a team. No more would he put up with Scrapper's emotional insecurities, the garbage which was this _relationship_ thing. Or with Scavenger's neediness, or Mixmaster's ineptitude, or Bonecrusher's over -impulsive behaviour, or Long Haul's complaining.

He checked the time. A little after 12.30, Earth LT. He should comm Astrotrain, really, or go find out about the spacebridge times. But there was still a bit to pack here. Then medbay, and all the equipment from there. Maybe get this done first …

Hook's optics fell on the pile of datapads, the one with Shrapnel's innermost bits transcribed. Would he take those? Yes, Hook decided, why not. There was no reason the Insecticons shouldn't come to Cybertron. It was a cheering thought, more incentive to go; the thought of an association, free of admonishments from Scrapper.

Indeed – Hook would be a free agent; independent, and with the whole universe at his feet. He would do what he liked, when he liked, and have whoever he wanted. As it should have been eons ago.

First Aid, if he showed up, would see what a success he was.

With this in mind, Hook started to gather the pads.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hook, his nerve failing at the decision to leave the Decepticons, gets a visit from Shrapnel - with rather pleasing results. Meanwhile Scavenger runs into trouble - but an unexpected helper comes to his rescue.
> 
> *Warnings:* This story contains Insecticon/Constructicon sex, sticky, P&P, tactile, oral. Explicit - please don't read if you don't like sticky. Also has a form of BDSM, violent noncon insecticon/conehead sex, prostitution, drug use and energon drinking in a quite vampiric style. Notions of procreation, of the cloning type. Definitely not mechpreg, however.  
> Although this fic has some dark 'moments,' I'm also warning for fluff/angst/romance - and crack.
> 
> This chapter has a lot of explicit sex, sticky, p&p, tactile and oral as well as BDSM. It also has mech-energon drinking, drug use and notions of procreation.

 

 

**PART FOUR**

**TWO HOURS LATER**

**From the Journal of Scrapper, Constructicon Leader, Decepticon Command Earth Contingent 1984.**

Some while after the row, I found myself with Long Haul again. Guy comes outta the woodwork at times like this. I know he thinks we don't appreciate him, but we do. Perhaps I should tell him more often.

He took one look at me, and sat down, putting his arm around me.

"Hook closed the bond," I said. I know the way I said it only went some way to putting across the devastation I felt inside.

"Yeah. I know."

"I should talk to him." I got up, seized now with the urge to go and find him, to sort things out, to apologise.

"Sit down," Long Haul said. "Leave him to himself."

"I told him I'd replace him."

"He knows you won't."

Long Haul had that: "I'm tellin' ya" look about him." I sat down. "What is it with Hook?" I sighed.

Of course, it was a rhetorical question. I wanted Long Haul to say. 'Nothing. He's just being Hook. It'll blow over.' All those sorts of things. But he didn't. He took his arm away. "I'm not sure," he said.

Cold horror struck again. "What do you mean?" I cried. "Is there somebody – _outside_ the team?"

He sighed. "I've been picking up _something,"_ he said quietly. "But I don't know what. I didn't wanna say nothin'. You were pretty upset before."

I lost it again. "I can't live like this!" I cried. "How can any of us live like this? Well that's it! I _am_ getting in touch with Grapple and I _am_ gonna replace him!"

Long Haul frowned. "Isn't that a bit drastic, Scrap? Luckily I don't think you'd quite pull it off."

"I might! It'd be better than this!"

He sighed. "Scrapper …" he shook his head, "…. there's a few 'issues' there, don't y'think? Quite apart from this bein' anger talking – cos we both know you ain't gonna do that …." I folded my arms stubbornly. "Like - little matter of finding Grapple? Not to mention getting him to _change sides?"_

He was right. It was stupid. But I refused to back down. "I'll talk to Beachcomber," I said. "He's on Earth now. He's on the level. He'll know where to look."

Long Haul studied me long and hard. "Y'know, I'm not gonna pay much heed to this, he said. "But if I was, then I'd say you'd be swapping one set of problems for another. I mean – I know he's amazing, and we'd get lotsa stuff built an' all. But c'mon, mech! Can you really see _Grapple_ dishing it out in Devastator's head role?"

"I'd put Bonecrusher in the head role," I said. "He's always wanted that."

"Primus help us! And what if we need fixing?"

"Hook won't necessarily go," I said. "He's bound to hang around were. We'd still get fixed."

"Well now," Long Haul said. "I wouldn't count on that."

Well that was a shock. I had not even thought of Hook leaving Earth. Now, however, I could see Long Haul had a point. Hook was too proud an aft to remain.

I plunged into a wretched state again. He put his arm back around me. "I think you should give it a little while," he said. "Think about things. Don't do anything rash."

I'd already done a rash thing. Saying that to Hook. I could think of nothing but him. "I don't want to ever be without him…" I murmured.

Long Haul drew me into his arms. "I know," he said. "Have faith, Scrap. He don't ever really wanna be without you either. It's just – a bit different for him than what it is for you."

I nodded, my chest aching again.

Long Haul wanted me. I could feel it. Then, I wanted him too. Vulnerability seems to bring out desire.

So we went to his quarters. I let him frag me, slowly, and lost myself in his skilful touches and embraces. But I ended up thinking about Hook. Then it was too much, and Long Haul had to stop. We didn't do it any more, and he just held me.

I felt guilty, as he was charged. After a while, I let him finish. I finished too. So it was OK in the end. And it did make things less raw.

I tried to recharge, next to him. But I couldn't. I keep thinking about Hook, and all of us, and the future of the gestalt, of us in the Decepticons. Perhaps Hook's right. Perhaps we do need a change. Perhaps if I think that way for all of us, he'll settle down.

If he stays. Primus, don't let him go.

I should be working on the Transfixatron, at least. Long Haul said no, rest, maybe in a few hours I'll have some help. For now, Boney and Mix are still out to it, Scavenger's gone for a fly and Hook – well Primus knows. The bond's still shut. Long Haul still says 'leave it.'

Anyway, I'll take Long Haul's advice. I took some of Mix's 'Sweet Offliner', as he calls it. I hope it does the trick.

….

**Still at the Decepticon Base**

As his 'packing' had progressed, Hook had found himself doing it more and more slowly. Some time later, the crates were still only half full. His resolve dwindling, doubts had begun to prickle his processor, as a myriad of questions made themselves apparent.

Would he _really_ approach Megatron and ask to _leave_ Earth? What if Megatron said 'yes?' What was really on Cybertron? Shockwave, yes, and some Seekers. Some other hangers on – but nobody Hook seemed to know. Elita One and some resistance femmes, it was also rumoured. He was hardly _their_ number one favourite. And Shockwave liked to work alone.

And what if he couldn't use the spacebridge? What if Astrotrain wouldn't take him, and neither would anyone else?

Hook paused uncomfortably, looking at the picture he'd been about to take down. His team mates smiled from the frame, the epitome of camaraderie and 'togetherness.' Hook left the picture where it was. He sat down.

It could go badly. Very badly. He imagined himself on the ground like Starscream, the barrel of Megatron's fusion canon pointed determinedly at him. "You have failed me, fool!" Megatron would say. "You are a Constructicon. Did you really think you'd be any use otherwise?"

Then there'd be no spark stasis, not even a hope of coming back. The last thing he would see before _oblivion_ was his team mates looking on sadly.

Hook's hands tightened on the edge of the berth. Maybe they wouldn't look sad. Maybe if the orange crane was already on his way, he wouldn't even be missed? The Universe would turn on. Without Hook in it. He would soon be forgotten.

Hook thought of Grapple. The other crane adored Scrapper, had fantasised about 'being a Constructicon'; had shed tears on the subject. _In front of him._ He imagined the look of rapture on the golden face at Grapple having gotten what he'd wanted. Would Hook really charge off happily to a 'new life' in the wake of _that?_

Hook knew that he wouldn't. The new life would be a misery, filled with remorse and fury. He'd never stay away. He'd want only to come back and break the Autobot's chassis. Hook couldn't risk it. There was nothing for it. He would stay.

The medic sighed. He ran his hands over his faceplates, and thought some more. Megatron might _make_ him stay - and watch the crane fit neatly into his spot. The thought made Hook want to purge.

Not that it would get that far. Megatron would roar that they'd shown their dysfunction, that he would not have an Autobot in their ranks. The thing Hook dreaded only slightly less than oblivion would happen. They'd _all_ go back in stasis.

The usual chill set in.

Although - maybe Megatron would leave him out, a 'useful' retention? Yes - that might not be bad. It might even be up to Hook if they came out again. He could recommend this - when he saw fit.

 _Get real._ Hook's optics went to the picture. Emotion pierced his spark. That couldn't happen. There was no way he could deprive them of life – even temporarily.

Hook got up and walked over to the picture. In their faces, there was nothing but simple affection. His spark churned. He thought of the times he'd tried to 'leave' before. He had always come back.

There were those strong surges as the bond reasserted, the frantic make-up sex; the relief….

Because it was quite simple. He functioned very badly without them.

Trapped! Forever destined a slave to the gestalt. Grabbing the picture, Hook hurled it angrily to the ground. Curse First Aid. He was out there somewhere, free, un-gestalted. He probably never even thought how lucky he was.

Hook sat down again, feeling himself sink into the familiar black pit. _I have to keep reminding myself there's more to life than this._

_Why? There isn't._

His optics wandered to the crates. Peeping from the top of one were the datapads with Shrapnel's schematics. Well that had been a nice, distracting little fantasy. "Sorry," he said out loud. "It would have been fascinating to explore you further but I have a _team_ to consider."

Hook tore his optics away. Both the tantrum and his fantasy were over. He must sort things out; see that, firstly, Grapple was out of the picture and secondly, they stayed functioning.

And that meant finding Scrapper. Smoothing him over. Saying he was fine, and didn't need a change. _Apologising._ Damn that prospect!

Still, Hook didn't have to mean it, any more than he would the rest. No, he would just _say_ it in the Scrapper-circuit-melting way he was good at. If he kept the bond shut, Scrapper wouldn't know any different.

His optics fell again on Shrapnel's schematics, and he hesitated. A spark of longing for something, the promise of forbidden opportunities, things he wouldn't have, burned for an instant. Then it was gone. Without even tidying up, Hook headed for the door.

And he was totally unprepared to almost collide with the Insecticon.

"Are you going somewhere-where?" Shrapnel said. "A pity, as I hoped to pay you a visit, visit."

…

**Somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, off the Coast of Washington USA**

Stabilizing his thrusters, Scavenger did his best to fly on the straight and level. He wasn't doing too badly. Flying alone for an hour or so had done wonders for his confidence. Long Haul was right!

The weather was, as Long Haul had predicted, rather nice. The sun was high in the sky, warming his back panels; a contrast to the headwind, cool and refreshing. Puffy white clouds only part obscured the blue expanse below, in which little white lines marked the heavy swell which had washed around the tower as he left.

Cheerful, Scavenger zoomed along. He thought of his departure. Who'd have imagined that a mech like Rumble could come out with good advice?

"Lock that fraggin' tail down," the cassette - who was today monitoring the exit - had said. "You wanna know why you're such an aerial bozo out there? It's _that_ thing, flappin' in the breeze!"

He'd been very OK about letting Scavenger out. In fact, Scavenger had been surprised how easy it all was. Megatron, of course was away – On Cybertron with Starscream and Shockwave, but neither Seekers nor Coneheads were anywhere to be seen.

In fact, he'd seen nobody after he left Long Haul. But then, approaching the exit lift, he'd run into Bombshell and Soundwave. And even though he'd found the horned Insecticon scary again - scarier than the others - and Soundwave was _always_ scary, Scavenger had stopped in front of them.

"Is Kickback here?" he'd boldly asked. M _aybe they could fly together?_

"No," Bombshell had said politely. "He's back at our lair. He has no part in the business to which we attend today."

Soundwave had said nothing. He'd seemed _interested_ in Bombshell. He kept 'looking' at him. _Another one who thinks they're all right_ , Scavenger had thought. He wondered what the 'business' was.

But something about the way Bombshell had said it had made him not want to know. He'd said 'thank you!' and moved on. It was a little disappointing. But by then he had decided on his _plan._

"Why d'you wanna know where the bugs hang out?" Rumble had said. "Creepy fraggers. The further away they stay from here the better."

Scavenger had felt a little resentful. He did not like that term. He'd considered saying something about Soundwave; but Rumble, who'd been busy on a comm when he first arrived and now seemed impatient to get rid of him, had flexed his piledrivers. Scavenger had thought better of it.

"Fly northeast till you hit land," Rumble had said. "They're in the forest up there. Look for desecration an' destruction. They'll be somewhere nearby."

And he'd activated the telescopic tower mechanism with no further ado.

So now, here Scavenger was. And even with the headwind, it had taken him a lot less time than he'd anticipated. Looking down, Scavenger saw that islands dotted the blue expanse and just beyond, cliffs and strips of beach marked the coastline.

It was pretty! And he'd made it here all by himself. If he ended up seeing Kickback, that was bound to impress the Insecticon. And it would impress the others too – although Scavenger found himself not really wanting to think about them right now, or wanting the dark associated thoughts which threatened to descend.

No, there were far better things at hand. And now he'd mastered this flying …

Feeling more confident, Scavenger swept lower. Closer, the islands looked like volcanic remnants, confirmed by the tall, rugged strata which rose before forested mountains.

How interesting! Scavenger had almost forgotten his geological qualifications, so devalued had they been for millennia. Now, he figured he must come here again, check this out, take some samples. Perhaps he'd start a proper collection – other than rocks and junk.

Boosting his Thrusters, Scavenger wound his way around a larger island, attempting a better view.

It was too late when he saw the two cars on the beach, the humans pointing, the guns aimed straight at him.

 _Autobots!_ And Scavenger, in his distracted state, had brought no weapons. There was only one thing to do. Run ….

But Scavenger was no Seeker. One shot caught him in the left leg, another grazed his helm. A third caught his thruster and he veered, out of control. He only just succeeded in staying in the air.

Then he was lurching haphazardly over the hilly forests, engine sputtering, pain engulfing him. His only other thought was to be grateful that for the fact that with all the injustices in the Universe, Primus had not made Autobots able to fly.

...........

**Back at the Decepticon Base ....  
**

Shrapnel seemed even more beautiful, even more incredible; like an exotic island in a sea of drudgery and inevitability. Just his presence had set Hook's relays tingling in excitement.

"You have team business, business?" he asked.

But yes, Hook did. Didn't he? There was an apology to make, a bond to reopen. A leader to caress and cosset until the whole wretched situation was all right again.

Besides, here Hook was, all _disarrayed._ Full of angry and negative thoughts. It was not a good time to impress the Insecticon.

So why had he come back in here? And why had he said that what he'd been going to do could 'wait until later?'

"Team can wait too," Hook said.

Shrapnel coasted across the room. His antlers seemed dimmer today, a duller silver; but that alluring iridescence still shimmered. Surrounding him was that strange, calm power. That rich scent, like the oils they used to burn in the sacred urns of the Towers, wafted from him.

His optics darted over the partly packed crates, the broken picture. His expression did not change. He looked at the crate in which was visible the picture of himself on the uppermost datapad.

He smiled. "You followed my suggestion-estion?"

Recalling how much he'd enjoyed the exercise, Hook was a little embarrassed. "Yes, thank you. Most interesting." _But that's as far as it goes._

Because it had to be. But oh Primus, he didn't want it to be. Hook had no idea why the Insecticon was having this effect, but already, a deep burn was growing in his circuits. Making up with Scrapper seemed much less important. The gestalt programming, which should have been urging him forth, forcing their conciliation, seemed to have stalled.

If Shrapnel stayed much longer, it would fade altogether. But _frag,_ he didn't want Shrapnel to leave.

Although - hang on a moment - what indication had Shrapnel given that he was here for anything but 'business?'

Hook took a firm grip on himself. "How is Kickback?" he asked.

"Kickback's progress is excellent, excellent." Shrapnel said. And then his gaze was directly on Hook. "But that is not why I'm here, here."

Heat rushed through Hook. Oh Primus, did Shrapnel really just say what Hook _thought_ he said? And with a 'look' of the kind that he _thought_ he gave him? His spark spasmed, his pump quickening, as energon surged through his conduits.

"Well that's – uh – it's good!" he ventured.

The Insecticon was before him, the dark face filled with that strange empathy, that quality which had before made Hook warm to him, want to reach out to him before. "I would like to explore you, you." Shrapnel said. "Does this sound agreeable, agreeable?"

Did it sound – _what?_ Oh Primus, that wasn't the adjective Hook would have used. He wasn't even sure what it meant. But whatever it meant, it sounded pretty darned good.

In his processor, confused scraps of thought still clung. _He must see Scrapper!_ He must secure his place - the team's place - in the scheme of things. But like driftwood on the shore in an incoming tide, they were being collected up and swept away.

The room seemed to close in. Outside the window, the fish still swam, oblivious to Hook's fate. They seemed light years away. Shrapnel's antlers shimmered briefly, lighting up like a cavalcade of tiny galaxies and star clusters. His intakes hissed softly, his scent bathing Hook in soothing waves. Hook sat down, heavily, as the universe turned.

"Are you all right, right?" Shrapnel was on the berth beside him.

_The team …_

This close, a low hum was audible. Energy radiated from the slightly smaller form. A long, thin finger stroked Hook's arm. Tingles ran up to his core, bursting back out and radiating to his extremities.

"I've got problems – with my gestalt," he whispered. "That's why that crate is there. I was packing – to leave." The words tumbled out. So easy it was, to tell Shrapnel these things.

Shrapnel laughed softly. "Aahh, teams, teams," he said. "And connections-ections." They are always complicated - but valuable valuable. Once forged, they must be nurtured-urtured."

"That's exactly what I'm not doing!" Hook whispered. His spark ached, and now he knew he looked a fool again. "It's just …" he began.

The finger stroked his cheek. "It is just that you want more, more."

"Yes …" Emotion swept through Hook's spark. Shrapnel understood; there was hope, redemption in the Insecticon's world. Shrapnel had survived destruction, survived the ages. He had traversed the universe, could avoid extinction. And – he was awesome. Slowly, Hook leaned against him.

Shrapnel drew him in, caressing his helm.

"Can you give me more?" Hook murmured.

"I believe so, yes, yes."

The fingers were stroking, softly, melting Hook's circuits into a molten tangle. "You are confused, confused" Shrapnel said. "Connections are hard, hard. I will help you, and this will help your team, team."

Hook's fingers curled on the Insecticon's chest. The humming of Shrapnel's spark, surrounded him, mingling with the scents. Colours swirled. He felt hands on his shoulders, caressing his back, ghosting along his craneshaft. He moaned, longing to be close, to be safe and at peace with Shrapnel.

Somewhere, in the distant universe outside, a door banged and there were voices. Then Shrapnel was pushing him gently away. "We will not be disturbed-urbed?" he said?"

Hook did not want to think of his team mates. It was suddenly, unthinkably hard. But he wrenched open the bond. Just a fragment.

Everyone seemed to be in recharge; all except Scavenger, who was – unreadable. Scrapper was with Long Haul. That hurt. _Hypocrite! Are you together discussing my replacement …. ?_

Hook slammed the bond shut, doubt vanishing from his processor. The team, right now – with its complications and implications - was simply too hard. Far too hard, beside the promise of utopia,

"No," he said. "Nobody will come."

............

 **Forest,** **Olympic National Park , Washington USA**

Above the forest canopy, it had started to cloud over. The forest hung darkly around Kickback, the sweet scents of earth and bark and fungus in shades of brown and green.

A deer was walking cautiously to the water. It had not detected Kickback. But it paused, frequently, and glanced furtively around, ears twitching and nostrils flaring. It knew beyond doubt that something _was not right_.

The slightest thing amiss would set it fleeing. Kickback, with the subtlest of touches, depressed the lever on the crossbow.

But the deer started, stiffening as through the trees came a very different noise. A distinctly 'non forest' type noise; Kickback's senses snapped t on high alert. There was no mistaking the whine and stutter of an engine. And it wasn't far away.

The deer took off. Kickback peered up, trying to see through the canopy. Not possible. Whatever it was, it was beyond the water, above the trees behind.

Kickback tensed. He should run, he knew. It could easily be one of those Coneheads. Last time he'd gotten out _only_ by tearing away. Then flying – very fast. He might not do that so easily again. But petulance flared in the cricket. The very sort of petulance that put him in Bombshell's bad books, but Kickback didn't care. Just as with the other night, he was darned if wouldn't have a crack.

Besides, he had weapons, this time. He hadn't left his rifle – the one nicked from that Minibot – behind. Those big, clanking morons couldn't fly in these trees, and they were useless on foot. Putting down the crossbow, Kickback pulled out the gun.

The noise was closer. It didn't _sound_ like a Conehead engine. Kickback cocked his head. It didn't sound like _any_ sort of healthy engine. And now, it had cut out.

Above the mud beyond the water, something plunged into the trees. A crashing followed, a sound of breaking foliage, accompanied by cries and squawks as birds and forest creatures fled. The noises went on as the object smashed and splintered its way down. Kickback caught flashes of metal, of flailing arms and legs, of green and purple.

There was a loud _ka-thud_ as it landed. Clods of mud flew up, spattering the trees.

A few more sounds as the forest accommodated this new situation. Then silence, punctuated by a hissing as steam rose, drifting and dispersing. Diesel, hydraulic fluids and energon scents floated to Kickback's olfactories. Apart from the slight twitching of his antenna, Kickback remained still.

As the steam cleared, Kickback could see it was certainly a mech; a Cybertronian. In root form. And it definitely wasn't a Conehead. In fact, it looked like it could possibly be…

Oh no, surely not. It _couldn't_ be that nurse. Even Kickback could not be that lucky.

No - Autobots came to this forest. Kickback had not logged all of their identities. And there were more of those Constructi-whatevers. Bombshell had said. They might not all be as friendly as the nurse and Hook. He cocked the rifle with a _click._

But the mech wasn't moving. That _shade_ of green. Kickback peered into the trees. He could make out purple legs. A little smile appeared on his faceplates. It _was_ the nurse! By the Hives, life was strange sometimes. Whoever said you couldn't be an optimist?

Delighted, the Insecticon rose into the air. Keeping his optics on the body and his rifle at the ready, he skimmed across the lagoon. As he drew closer, he squeed inside. It was _definitely_ Scavenger. But what was he doing _here?_

 _Did it matter?_ He was hurt. Just like Kickback had been. The Insecticon Way was clear. Assistance rendered incurred a debt, which remained until paid. Strictly speaking, it wasn't Scavenger who'd fixed him. But so what? He'd been there, hadn't he? He'd touched Kickback's wing and antenna. Made him feel all _nice_ , and better.

With a squelching sound, Kickback landed. He cocked his head on one side. Antennae twitched, optics observing every detail. He squeed again - he had him _here,_ in his forest, all to himself. The only trouble was – he looked like the pit.

Scavenger lay face down. Spattered with mud, he was dinted and dinged. Foliage was stuck in places. One leg was folded, at an angle, and energon leaked from an ugly gash in the other. It ran down the tread things to form an oily pool in the mud.

 _He's been shot._ There was another hole in his shovel thing, and the shaft was bent. Kickback glanced around; but there was only the forest, now heavy and silent.

He was so still. Kickback crouched down. Surely he couldn't be…?

But no; there was movement; a twitch of the fingers. Then Kickback saw that the chest cavity rose and fell with shallow intakes. He bent lower. A low hum came from Scavenger's chest. His spark and pump _must_ be functioning.

Pleased, Kickback sat back up. Delicately, he extended a finger and prodded the unconscious form; once, twice. It moved! A groan came out of Scavenger's vocalizer.

"Yay!" Kickback said out loud.

Because Kickback had been right. Even injured, Scavenger was gorgeous! And he smelt delicious. Kickback wanted to get down again, and hug him right there in the mud. But no - that leak from his leg - that was no good. What good would it be if the guy died in his arms?

Scavenger moved more strongly then, and Kickback jumped back. He writhed, a high pitched, whimpering sound coming out as his arms flailed. His tail came up and the broken shovel thing smashed into the mud, sending a shower over Kickback.

Wiping his face, Kickback looked at the Constructicon. His optics scanned the sodden ground. He should be somewhere dry, at least. And what if his assailant came looking? Even among the trees, they were too out in the open.

Kickback glanced around. The trees stretched on up the hill ahead, but there was quite a lot of mud before them. To his left, however, was a bank, the undergrowth atop it thick and concealing. If Kickback could just get him up there…

Yes. He would do that. And then – well he already had an idea.

As he bent to the mech's's audio, Kickback shivered at the scents on the Constructicon, the soft him of vibrating metal. "Hey buddy!" he whispered. "Gotta move ya!"

Scavenger's optics flickered in faint recognition. Kickback got up. Squelching his way around to the front end, he grabbed his arms.

The mech cried out as he hauled with all his might. "Just bear with me!" Kickback panted. It took all his effort, but - to his relief - the robot began to slide forward.

….

**Back at the Decepticon Base**

Hook was easily seduced. Shrapnel was pleased. He'd pondered in the time before he got here what to do if he wasn't. "Restrain him," Bombshell had said. "Use force if necessary."

But Shrapnel hadn't wanted to do that. For once, he had put his foot down with the older Coleopteran. "He will come to me willingly, or not at all, all," he had said. "And by that I do not mean in the way Thrust is willing, willing. I am done with that, that."

Bombshell hadn't argued. "As you wish," he said. "From his reactions, I don't think you will have a problem. His needs will bring him to you. But besides this, he wants you."

"Good, good," Shrapnel had said. "Because I want him, him. Very much, much."

Now here he was, with the Constructicon murmuring in his arms. And it was much, _much_ nicer than the Coneheads.

Shrapnel held Hook, gliding his hands subtly over panels, checking out the slightly taller mech; his limbs, the mechanism on his back, the location of connectors. There were two, one on each hip. Nice. One for input and one for output. Unlike with Thrust, Shrapnel would use both.

He may even use his spike. He would see how things went.

Hook murmured again. Shrapnel stroked his helm and kissed it, his spark throbbing warmly. He liked Hook a lot, he decided. In his profession he was confident, and fiercely individual. Yet, Bombshell had been right – everything he did betrayed a need for connection, to be part of something bigger. He did not want that, but was afraid to not have it. And he didn't want to die. Ever. He rallied against that thought. He was vulnerable.

And that brought out in Shrapnel a curiously protective instinct. It was, admittedly, part to do with Hook being the perfect clone-merge candidate. He had intelligence, skill, aesthetic qualities. When he found out what was planned, his motivation would complete the picture. What he lacked in strength, Shrapnel would make up for.

It would perpetuate the Way. Yet, what Shrapnel felt now was something which went beyond the Way, just as with Kickback. _Curious_ , Shrapnel thought. _Another Quintesson effect?_ He would discuss it with Bombshell.

Because right now, there were more urgent needs. Desire surged through Shrapnel. He did not wish to wait longer. Keeping his arm around Hook, he stroked Hook's face. Then, he put a finger under Hook's chin, and tilted his face up. He paused, smiling at the need in the handsome face, the liquid crimson optics; liking the feel of Hook's hand tighten on his arm, the small flare of energy which scattered off him.

Shrapnel kissed him, slowly, deeply. Like he'd wanted to since first they met. Gently, he explored the Constructicon's mouth, letting Hook get used to the long glossa which twined around his; the taste, Shrapnel knew, was strange for Cybertronians.

As he kissed, Shrapnel stroked Hook, caressing his face, his helm, his shoulders. He found the crane shaft and ran his hand down it, more firmly than before. Evidently, Hook liked that. He liked it a lot. He moaned, pressing hotly against Shrapnel, his hands clutching at Shrapnel's chest as he kissed him back, enthusiastically.

 _So responsive,_ Shrapnel thought. And compliant. And so sensitive! He could not recall the last time he'd had a Cybertronian as responsive or compliant or sensitive as Hook.

He deepened the kiss, strengthening the pressure on the craneshaft. Hook shivered, his hands wandered, one creeping around Shrapnel's waist, feeling his pelvic armour. The other wandered up and over his shoulder, finding Shrapnel's antler.

The jolt of electricity that went through both of them as the antler fritzed was stronger than Shrapnel intended. Hook tensed, breaking the kiss. He stared at Shrapnel, surprise clear on his face. Then he smiled. "Amazing," he murmured.

And it was. The mere touch had sent Shrapnel's charge screaming up. The energy which surged afresh was primeval, an awakened nascent power of procreative imperative; the promise of glory. Cybertronians would dwindle and fade, their numbers diminishing with wars and wasted resources. But Insecticons would not. They would go on, existing forever, immortal, indestructible. And Hook would too, through countless numbers of clones.

A shudder went through Shrapnel's frame and his grip tightened on Hook. But he thought of the charred Conehead. _I must be careful,_ he thought. _Bombshell was right. This is powerful. I could kill him_. _This I cannot risk._

Hook was impatient, squirming, wanting to be kissed again. Wanting more. Shrapnel relaxed, and caught his hand.

"Slowly," he said. "Slow is good. It can only enhance the final coming together-ether."

Hook melted into him, compliant in his arms once more.

..........

**Olympic National Park Forest, Washington USA**

Scavenger was moving. Wet ground slid beneath him as a battery of warnings burst out in his processor, a grim catalogue of broken components and malfunctioning systems.

The Constructicon was conscious enough to know that he truly was fragged. Not only was his frame a mess, but he'd burned out his engine. Pain seared through a shattered leg, and his intakes stuttered as his auxiliary motor fought to compensate.

And his tail was ruined! That, somehow, was worst of all.

Panic simmered, threatening to erupt. But Scavenger managed to remember what Hook had taught him: _The more of a state you get in, the worse your injuries will be... stay calm and assess self repair capacity. Seek assistance where capacity inadequate._

Capacity Inadequate? It could not have _been_ more inadequate. But how was he supposed to _seek assistance_?

Scavenger was getting pulled upwards. His arms felt as though they might dislocate at the shoulders. The ground felt drier. Something stuck in his hip as he was dragged over it. Searing pain shot through his leg and he screamed.

"All right – nearly there!" panted the one who pulled him. There was a cracking, snapping sound. Scavenger realized it was twigs breaking.

The voice was familiar. And it had associations that were not unpleasant. Nor were the hands grabbing his arms.

Scavenger concentrated, focusing on his recall. He had been flying. He had flown from the Decepticon base and been shot at, and hit. He had flown too fast, and his engine had overheated. He hadn't paid attention. He'd been too preoccupied with the agony in his leg. His engine had cut, his Thrusters lowing power. He'd crashed.

Ah – so that was what had happened. And he was on his own. Oh Primus. _He came here all on his own?_

"Nearly there!" The voice was interspersed with rapidly hissing intakes. Vegetation scratched against Scavenger, catching at his broken tail as foliage popped and cracked.

With an effort, Scavenger pulled more data. Long Haul. He'd told him to go flying. To fly locally, to go to some island nearby. Fear gripped Scavenger like an icy hand. He'd never even seen the island. He'd headed to the mainland. He'd disobeyed Long Haul; and now Long Haul didn't know he was here. _None_ of them knew he was here. Only Rumble…

Panic seized him. His team - they wouldn't be able to find him! His self repairs wouldn't cope, and _nobody_ would fix him. He'd rot and rust, right here in this – wherever he was. If the Autobots didn't get him first.

He forgot whoever was pulling him, instead struggling to activate his com.

"Hook!" he wailed; but only a dull static sounded in response. A check revealed the device was fragged, along with everything else.

"Hook, _help!"_ he wailed again.

"Hey!" He had come to a stop. "Try and relax." The voice was metallic sounding, whispery. The hands which caressed his helm were soft and gentle. Where had he heard that voice?

It mattered not. He must start his engine. Move. Get out of here and find his team. That was the important thing. But his engine cranked unyieldingly and his motor systems refused to obey. He tried to online his optics, but met with the same grim lack of success. "Hook," he said feebly.

"It's not Hook. It's Kickback? D'you remember me?"

"Kickback?" Oh yes, he'd been in medbay –

But he wasn't a medic. No, he was…

A hand stroked Scavenger's helm, the touch as light as a feather. It was soothing. An Insecticon. That's right – Kickback was an Insecticon. And he was a looker, and nice; but hey – they ate mechs. Oh Primus, he'd been captured by an Insecticon and now he was gonna be eaten!

"Relax …." the hand was still stroking his helm. No, Kickback wouldn't eat him. Kickback was nice. Now he recalled, Kickback was who he'd been coming to see. If Kickback had been likely to eat him, Scavenger wouldn't have done that. Would he? Hook thought he was nice, too. He'd fixed Kickback. And Hook liked the other one. The antlered one.

No, he wouldn't be eaten. Or hurt. Scavenger clutched at Kickback, a sudden refuge in the wilderness.

"Here - drink this."

A metal tap type structure was against Scavenger's mouth, that oily smell pervading his olfactory sensors. A sweet tasting liquid trickled on to his lips.

"Drink!" Kickback commanded.

The thing seemed to be attached to the Insecticon. _Oh Primus, he wants me to drink his energon!_ Panic rose again, a dark shadow springing from the depths. "I can't …" Scavenger wailed. But the liquid trickled, warm and – delicious.

"C'mon! Trust me!" Kickback said. "It will make you better."

A warning in Scavenger's HUD revealed that he was desperately under energised. Grasping Kickback's wrist with both hands, he took deep gulps; and, to his surprise, felt almost instantly improved, and his audios must have cleared, because the sounds of the forest were all around, its earthy scents blending exquisitely with those of the Insecticon.

Yes, he'd been right. This was all right after all.

….

**Back at the Decepticon Base**

Hook was impatient again. He pulled Shrapnel on top of him, squirming under him. A hand hooked around Shrapnel's helm and tugged him into another kiss.

Then Shrapnel was on him, and Hook's body was beautiful, exhilarating. Lust seared through the Insecticon, like a fire about to flare, badly out of control. His intakes came in sharp rasps, metal squealing as he writhed on the Constructicon, his hands clutching at the berth. His antler relays burned, aching to channel and release.

Shrapnel held back the urge, holding the energy inside, struggling to abort the channel sequence, directing charge to his connectors which burned and hissed.

Hook cried out. He clutched Shrapnel by the chest and kissed him, frantically. Shrapnel felt the length of his body throbbing hotly, the hotter-than-hot spots where the connectors lay, his spike. Shrapnel kissed him back, rolling his glossa, slowing his movements to let the charge settle.

It did; but then Hook's energy field flared, madly, hotly. Shrapnel whimpered. If Hook touched his antlers, he'd lose control. Gripping Hook's wrists, he pinned him as Hook's surge went into him, sending the charge soaring and his body into a spasm of need for release.

And he had to release. It could not he helped. Struggling to hold back, Shrapnel offlined his optics and arched back. Using every shred of control he possessed, he released over Hook, an all of body scatter. Currents skittered wildly between their frames.

Even with his efforts, it was too fast, too strong. The Constructicon cried out as blue light flashed, and electricity snapped and crackled. Shrapnel took deep intakes, at least partly satiated, enjoying the sensations of Hook's body as the charge settled, but anxious. Hook squirmed under him, very unharmed and wanting more.

Relieved, Shrapnel nuzzled him. _But that was nothing,_ he thought. _And we are not even connected._

Hook had definitely liked it. He gazed up at Shrapnel with wonderment. He moved, wrapping his legs around Shrapnel, as the Insecticon felt panels open under his hips, Hook's mouth on his neck.

Shrapnel threw his head back, heating again, allowing the raw arousal to wash around his body. _I must concentrate on exploring and cataloguing him,_ he thought.

_And I will also pleasure him greatly; it is helpful that he likes a degree of pain. But I will control my releases, and store the residual. This can wait until later. The mainland needs a storm._

Eventually, that would be the only way.

…..

If Hook had not been lost in Shrapnel before, he was now. An array of unprotected firewalls came down, collapsing in blissful acquiescence. Somewhere in the distant depths of his processor, warnings flashed, how _thoroughly inadvisable_ this was. But Hook was beyond resistance.

The power in that surge! The pain had barely even registered as such. Every bit of his body tingled and burned with a new kind of satiation, an ecstasy of sensation.

And how close had he come to real, irreparable damage? For he had felt Shrapnel's inner struggle, seen the violence in the red optics. The surge between them had sounded like gunfire, the pungent smell partly that of his own singed panels. It was beautiful, terrifying, the tantalising thrill of the unknown.

But Shrapnel had restrained it. There was sanctuary, with him, a refuge in a world where he could be brought to the brink of agony and ecstasy, feel the power but safe in Shrapnel's arms. Totally, gladly, he submitted to the Insecticon.

And it occurred to Hook, distantly, that he had _no idea_ why Shrapnel was like this, seemed to have chosen him and now wanted to indulge like this. But _frag,_ it was good.

Shrapnel still moved against him. Hook wanted more. Now. Badly. He whimpered, wanting connection, wanting to feel Shrapnel, to feel the source of the power, Shrapnel's desire, feel the Insecticon curb himself just for him.

And it wasn't just the power. Primus, the Insecticon had _technique._ Because Just the way he was sliding, his mouth roving, set Hook on fire again, the brief satiation withering as charge and the need for release seized him with fresh urgency.

His hands were still pinned; he struggled, wrapping his legs around Shrapnel. And then Shrapnel was over him, the red alien optics burning briefly into his, and everything froze…

Shrapnel kissed Hook's mouth, his face, his neck, the long glossa flicking into seams and around cords. Hook groaned, offlining his optics as he lay back, panting as the touches sent his charge up, and up, and up…

Of frag, it went up fast. Hook offlined his optics, writhing to scrape their panels in such a way as to get up there again. He wanted to wrest free, to touch Shrapnel, to make him surge; wanted the pain, the ecstasy. The antlers spread to either side, scintillating with promise. If only he could get his hands on the antlers.…

"Hook, Hook!"

Shrapnel had stopped kissing him. Hook onlined his optics to find Shrapnel was looking at him. The Insecticon's face glowed with a metallic sheen, his optics burned into Hook's. "Patience-atience …" Shrapnel said.

Hook didn't have any. "I need you to do _that_ again," he ground out, wriggling.

Shrapnel wanted to do it, too. Hook could tell from the way he was trembling. He got up on his hands and shuttered his optics. Just the anticipation of what was coming sent Hook soaring to the brink of overload.

The first currents from the surge sent him over and he cried out as it took him, scatter from the residue adding to the intense pleasure.

It was stronger, harder, so much more penetrating than before. The universe turned white, then grey, then flashed into pale blue light. It surrounded Hook, radiant, magnificent. Then it faded, diminishing, melting into shades of grey, fading towards blackness.

Towards nothing; but no, not nothing. For a throbbing returned to his circuits, a myriad of warnings signalling shorted relays, the need for self repair. Through it all was glorious, deep satiation; and there was Shrapnel, always, and being safe with Shrapnel, and there was life with Shrapnel - forever.

"So sweet, sweet …" Like a choir on the wind, he heard his lover's voice, as the waves of overload bathed his spark's very essence.

…

**Olympic National Park Forest, Washington USA**

They were in a clearing among low bushes. Scavenger had never realized that life could be so – fortuitous. Or that he could feel so much better, in so short a time.

Kickback lay facing him, leaning up on one elbow. Scavenger shifted, focusing his now onlined optics, so as to get a better view of the Orthopteran face. So young, and yet so old. So alien, and yet so familiar. So nicely shaped, with the large red optics and the small olfactory node and cheeky little mouth. So – _pretty._ So _desirable._

Scavenger licked his lips.

Kickback liked what he saw. Obviously. He made a kind of _squee_ sound. His face lit up, a picture of abject delight. He sat up. Scavenger lifted his gaze, and there was the face, atopped by the fascinating twitching antennae. Behind it were pretty wings and Earth vegetation. Both were inexplicably and amazingly beautiful.

The Insecticon beamed. He spoke. "Hey! Welcome to Kickback's special forest haven!" he said.

Scavenger stared beyond him, transfixed by the organic tapestry which throbbed in an orchestra of subtle rhythm and sounds, a resonance from the ancient rocks below. A leaf nearby fluttered , catching his attention. It was intricate, a work of art, delicate veins interlocking within a scheme of cellular fusion. More movement caught his optic. A creature scuttled, small and reptilian and perfectly made.

"Wow," Scavenger whispered, "What did you give me?" He giggled. "Can I have some more."

"It's Insectifuel!" Kickback said. He sounded proud of this fact. "Our energon is many times more potent than Cybertronians'. The Decepticons used it in the war! It speeds up repairs, see – and makes 'em feel nice. But I don't reckon you should overdo it."

Scavenger did feel nice. Primus, he felt nice! Every part of him felt alive, as if with a consciousness of its own. Broken components manoeuvred and melded, as circuitry knitted deep inside and systems booted back up. Power surged into his servos, and Scavenger swung his tail up; only to find it constrained by bushes. But that didn't matter. It was fixed.

"Hey! What's the name of them mechs you hang out with?"

"We're Constructicons," Scavenger still could not believe the _environment._ He pulled himself up. He was on a bank, looking down through _trees._ They rustled, ancient Earth beings, wise and alive. _How long have you lived here?_ He wanted to call out to them. Water lay below. It glinted, a breeze rippling the surface of the lagoon. Patterns scintillated, the rhythm of this planet, echoing those of the universe beyond.

"Mix makes stuff like this," he murmured. "But it ain't nearly as good."

Scavenger became conscious of the Insecticon again, poised; an alien statue, watching him with acute interest. His head was cocked. He cackled delightedly, and clapped his hands.

Scavenger took in the exquisite form, the face, the wings, all of it. But nothing was more obvious, more wantable than the Insecticon's wrist. He reached for it, hungrily.

Kickback pulled it away "No!" he said. You don't need it."

"But I want it!" Scavenger fell back, curling playfully like a kitten. Kickback was above him, antennae twitching. They felt nice, those things. Imagine how they were gonna feel now! Scavenger made a grab for one. "Want those too!" he giggled.

Kickback skittered back. His wings strummed. He really was _beautiful,_ all black helm and dark face. No, Scavenger didn't just want the antenna. He wanted all of Kickback.

Getting on to his hands and knees, he lunged. But Kickback moved faster. Scavenger found, instead, himself pinned down, his wrists beside his head very much like - if he had known it - his other team mate right at that time. He giggled. The Insecticon loomed above him, wings erect, the hot metal of his chest vibrating against Scavenger's.

Desire rushed through Scavenger. But what was this with the wrists? Unlike Hook, he easily wrested free. Or maybe Kickback let him. Awesome. Now he could have what he wanted. He threw his arms around Kickback, rolling them sideways, flattening the vegetation.

"Hey – careful!" But it was too late. They'd managed to arrive at the top of the bank; and now they tumbled over the edge

The ground bumped and dinged him, metal clanking as they went down. He smelt sweet scents, felt the hot brush of panels, wings under his hands, his tail sparking as they tumbled, over and over. And all the while, the forest embraced them. Full of ancient secrets; it merged with the Insecticon, and Scavenger, part of their being, their essence.

They landed in soft organic residue, a tangled heap of mechparts. It was where Scavenger had been before he got fixed. "My hard work!" Kickback was laughing. "And here we are in the slaggin' mud!"

Scavenger stared at him. He felt – marvellous. Coolness lapped against his panels, seeped into his seams, filling him with new aliveness. The Insecticon, the sighing trees and shifting shades of green, the rippling water beyond; it all combined into the most beautiful scene, ever.

"Nothing's been for nothing," Scavenger whispered, reaching a hand out to brush Kickback's face. "I think you're like - the greatest being the universe ever created."

Kickback didn't seem unhappy about that. Not at all.

...

**Back at the Decepticon Base …**

Hook's face when he overloaded was easily the most beautiful thing _Shrapnel_ had ever seen. Or could remember seeing.

And he felt better. Relieved of charge, and more confident of how far he could go, Shrapnel let go of his wrists. Hook's arms instantly came around him, stroking at the antlers. Although they tingled deliciously under Hook's touch, Shrapnel had spent enough energy to control the channel sequence. He nuzzled in, enjoying the attention.

Yet still, he was cautious. _Explore him. Don't harm him._ And the antlers were risky.

Shrapnel looked straight into Hook's optics. "Put your hands behind your head, and hold the head of the berth, and lie still, still," he said. "This is important, important. Do not touch my antlers, antlers."

A belligerent glint, flashed in Hook's optics. His gaze flickered to the antlers. He looked for a moment as though he would challenge this. Interesting, Shrapnel thought, liking that side of Hook. But he fixed his with an optic flare just the same. Hook complied.

"Good, good …" Shrapnel began to kiss down his body, his mouth roving sensuously. His hands moved over Hook, exploring metal, liking the feel of it on his mouth as he moved to neck cords, and then chest plates. He fondling joints, licking into seams, tracing them with his glossa. Hook moaned, his pleasure acute. He didn't let go of the berth.

Shrapnel moved lower. One hand ghosted over a connection panel which throbbed and slid open. The other slid over Hook's warm codpiece, feeling down and between his legs to a valve which also opened, a moist cavern under Shrapnel's fingers.

Shrapnel's charge surged again. His spike shifted. Oh he'd like to spike him; feel the walls of that valve close around his hugeness. But that was another thing Hook would need to get used to.

He turned his attention instead to the two conventional panels on Hook's hips. They were open, Ports sparked intermittently, the cables twitching. "Nice, nice…" Shrapnel murmured, liking what he saw. He stroked the cable and it quivered. Without further hesitation, his mouth moved on to the panel.

….

Later, Hook would have great difficulty recounting the intensity of the sensations as Shrapnel's mouth kissed and licked at that panel, his glossa swirling around the connection. Hook shuddered as he bit it gently; then it was getting pulling out, and oh Primus, Shrapnel had it in his mouth. Hook's hands clutched at the berth behind him as he arched up.

"Keep still, still …"

Hook onlined his optics to see Shrapnel poised over him. The connector cord trailed from his mouth. "Hard …" he said, as currents scintillated up through the connection and to his core. And it was – both keeping still and not touching the antlers.

For the antlers were _right there_. They glowed, and back was the iridescent blue shimmering with many colours. Oh how badly Hook wanted to touch the antlers. Soooo badly…

But the sensations in his connector were new, distracting, exquisite. Shrapnel sucked, gently, sending tingles fritzing into Hook. He offlined his optics, his fingers digging into the berth as he burned for connection. And more was going on. Hands were running over his pelvis, over his codpiece and then, there were fingers at his valve.

All Hook's lust diverted to between his legs. He shuddered. Opening his legs, he pushed on to the fingers, wanting Shrapnel in any way he could have him.

And then, he was being filled, the long fingers exploring the walls, the ceiling. They reached the deep node… and then his connector was fritzing as Shrapnel's glossa caressed it; meanwhile Shrapnel's other hand was on his port, the fingers exploring…

" _Oh Primus…"_ Hook threw his head back, unable to believe the height of the sensations combined.

He was nearly there again. The fingers probed, setting off reactions which seared up to his core and spark. He began to pant hard, as Shrapnel's fingers and mouth moved faster.

"Don't _stop_!" He was so close again. He was going up and up and up and Primus he was going to come again and he wanted to touch Shrapnel… oh yes he really _really_ wanted to touch Shrapnel…

As he went over the brink, Hook couldn't help it. His hands left the berth-head and reached out, one landing on the Insecticon's helm but the other closing round an antler.

The smooth metal throbbed in his hand for an instant. Before the universe exploded in another mass of blinding white light, pleasure and delicious searing heat.

…..

**Olympic Forest National Park, Washington USA**

He was the _greatest being in the Universe?_ Aw yeah, Kickback liked that! Maybe he should give Scavenger more Insectifuel. In fact, he would.

Why not? During that ungainly descent, Kickback had had just enough of the Constructicon banging against him to remind him totally of his previous 'ideas' and arouse him thoroughly. Now Scavenger was so obviously better, Kickback wanted him like crazy.

It felt nice, having Scavenger drew energon from his wrist. Kickback's arm went all tingly. The tingles travelled, sinking into his core, his spark. He shivered, then decided Scavenger had had enough. Pulling his wrist away and closing the conduit valve, he launched himself on top of the Constructicon.

After all, that was what Scavenger wanted before, wasn't it? And he obviously still did now - Insectifuel or none – for he was pulling Kickback into a kiss. And it was nice. He tasted sweet and oily and Cybertronian. And his chest throbbed, right under Kickback's own throbbing spark.

Scavenger squirmed in the kiss. His hands were on Kickback's wings, feeling and stroking. So nice! So different from how Shrapnel held them. Kickback's fingers explored, sliding over Scavenger's arms, his neck, up and over his helm. He wanted to feel him all, so fascinating; his body, so different.

He ground his hips, feeling heat radiate from Scavenger's codpiece. _Oh yes, that was nice_ … Kickback wondered if he should get his spike out yet. He wanted to. _Oh hell yeah -_ the thing was hard against the cover, throbbing madly. Sensation fritzed down his thighs, accentuated by the tread things rubbing against them.

That tail thing. He wanted to get at that. Kickback's hand slid down, Kickback's side, sliding over his hip, his thigh. Kickback fingered the tread things. Oh yes, they were beautiful; and by the hive he was gonna have to stick his spike in soon or he might explode. But then, Scavenger was squirming uncomfortably.

Kickback broke the kiss. "What's the problem?" he chirped.

"My tail!" Scavenger giggled. "It's caught." Dreamy optics stared up at the Insecticon. "It's better for me on top."

"All right!" It sounded good for Kickback, too. He rolled off Scavenger and lay on his side, energy racing through him as he watched the Constructicon organize out his tail. Frag it was sexy. Definitely, he'd feel that next. Kickback's spike bulged and throbbed as Scavenger straightened himself. His optics wandered to between Scavenger's legs. His valve was open. A trickle of liquid ran down his thigh.

"Oh mech!" Kickback sat up, antennae twitching. He could not take his optics off the valve. But, he thought, he should clarify matters. "D'you wanna sit on my spike?" he asked. "Or did you stick your spike in me?"

Bombshell would reproach him for that, he knew. Often had he been spoken to about his 'approaches.' But heck, if you wanted to know something, you had to ask, didn't you?

Yeah - that was right. Because Scavenger looked delighted. "I wanna be spiked," he said.

And now he was on Kickback, pushing him down as more warmth radiated from his chest. Kickback pushed his own chest against it, as his hands wandered, feeling up and over Scavenger's aft. And then there was the tail. Kickback touched it. The tail stiffened in his hand. Kickback could wait no longer. He had to get his spike out.

"Sit back", he said. And get ready. "You're gonna love this!"

…..

Kickback loved their faces when they first saw it. And Scavenger's was extra good. He stared at the spike, a massive pillar rising before him, in awe.

"Whaddya reckon?" Kickback asked.

"It's fantastic!" Scavenger whispered. "But I think we should play a bit first after all. I need to open up."

Oh how Kickback loved this directness, this lack of _games._ With Shrapnel, games were so often the norm.

Sliding down Kickback's thighs, Scavenger took the spike in his mouth and – _oh by the Hives_ that was blissful – started to swirl his glossa around the tip.

Kickback moaned, shuttering his optics. Holding his spike at the base, he arched his hips up as the tongue kept up its activities, sucking and swirling and flicking.

"Frag you're good!" Kickback's hand came up to caress Scavenger's helm.

It was wonderful. The sounds of the forest, the mud in his seams, the delicious scent of the forest and of Scavenger.

Scavenger shivered, his tongue moved faster as Kickback's charge went up.

"You're gonna make me blow," he said.

But Scavenger stopped, panting. "I'm open," he said. "Let's frag. "

Kickback wasn't about to refuse.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scrapper is distracted from his angsting over Hook by the need to search for Scavenger. Hook reminisces pleasantly about the last few hours with Shrapnel, before getting a few surprises. Kickback enjoys the compny of his new friend and Shrapnel prepares to cook up a storm.
> 
> *Warnings:* This story contains Insecticon/Constructicon sex, sticky, P&P, tactile, oral. Explicit - please don't read if you don't like sticky. Also has a form of BDSM, violent noncon insecticon/conehead sex, prostitution, drug use and energon drinking in a quite vampiric style. Notions of procreation, of the cloning type. Definitely not mechpreg, however.  
> Although this fic has some dark 'moments,' I'm also warning for fluff/angst/romance - and crack.
> 
> This chapter has sticky sex, oral sex, p&p, drug use, energon drinking and medical procedures with mild violence.

 

**PART FIVE**

** LATE AFTERNOON   
**

****From the Journal of Scrapper, Constructicon Leader, Decepticon Command Earth Contingent 1984.** **

In the end, I recharged, and Mix's mix did the trick. I only onlined once; and though this was with a start, and my mind filled with confused images I did not want to see, of Hook with _somebody else,_ a mech _outside the team_ who _wasn't First Aid_ , I went straight back to recharge.

When I next awoke, I had _no doubt_ that I'd been right about the 'someone else' all along, even if wrong about them being in the team.

It is strange, recharge. Resolve can form that never would online. I was filled with a new determination. A very simple one. I would find this 'lover.' He would know exactly what I thought, just before he got my fist in his face, and then became very sorry indeed that he ever messed with Hook's head, or my team.

Long Haul was online too. He had been for some time. He lay beside me, his hands behind his head. He said he'd been thinking.

"Hook opened the bond, didn't he?" I said.

Long Haul didn't look at me. "Yeah."

"He was with somebody. Who was it?"

"Scrapper…" He sighed. "Can't you give it a rest?"

But I did not wish to hear this. I was certain of my new 'path.' "I've done some thinking, Long Haul," I said. "I need to be more affirmative. Organize the team better. I should not have been so hard on Scavenger, as I now realize it's not his fault. I am going to find this mech…" I clenched my hands into fists. "They will be sorry they came between me and Devastator's head component."

"You and your _organization,"_ Long Haul sighed, deeply. He turned over and lay facing me. "I know it helps us with projects and in battle. But right now?" he shook his head. "As for the other mech? That might not be advisable."

His lack of support was appalling! "Why?" I cried.

He hesitated. "Because whoever it is, I couldn't read their signature. But I could feel enough to know that they were – good – for Hook."

I sprang up, hardly able to believe my audios, not wanting to believe them. "How can you say that?" I cried. "Well I am not going to tolerate it, Long Haul! I say that we get the others and sort it once and for all!"

Long Haul had sat up. He regarded me from the edge of the berth. "No," he said quietly. "What came through was short, but intense. It's all right. It's something Hook … needs. You know, Scrapper. About his – background issues. My advice is you ride this one out."

Well it was true, yes, about those. About Hook being a factory made mech, the troubles he had being a 'freak,' an inexplicably intelligent creation who nobody could work out how to bring up. And I knew First Aid had had a lot to say about he 'effects' of this in the past. It maybe is something of which I should have taken more notice, granted. But I couldn't see what it had to do with this now.

I went to protest. But he spoke again. "We have a more pressing problem. More important than Hook's choice of frag partners. Scavenger's missing."

I did remember then that Scavenger went for a flight. But I could not see how that – how anything – could be more important than…

"Scavenger closed the bond," Long Haul said.

I gaped at him. I mean, Scav _never_ does that! He can't bear the thought of being cut off from us. "No …" I said.

"Yep," Long Haul said. "His comm's out, too." He sighed. "I didn't wanna bother you with this before, but he overheard you and Hook, see. He thinks he caused the trouble between you. I thought the fresh air would do him good. But now - I'm worried."

Now, I felt the incomplete mass that was our gestalt, the two sparks missing, the empty ache inside. Hook, I was used to that happening. But Scavenger? It brought a new awful hollowness.

"Do we have any idea where Scavenger was headed?" I said. And now I was angry again; for I had been devoting all my attention, every scrap of it to what I would do about Hook. As usual, the mech had managed to divert every scrap of attention to himself.

And he had lied to me. Well, _deceived_ me, at any rate. I wasn't riding this out. He and I would _have it out._

Long Haul looked unhappy. "Rumble said he was looking for the Insecticons."

"What?" I cried. "Why?" And then, a terrible thought occurred. "Those Insecticons that were here the other day…" I felt sick inside. "The one that Hook fixed, and his companions…?"

"Yeah," said Long Haul. "They eat anything y'know. They coulda …" he sighed, shaking his head. "they coulda thought he was a tasty prospect."

 _Oh no_. It was not beyond the bounds of possibility at all. Yes - I was certain they'd sized Scav up and captured him, and taken him to their lair.

The hell with Hook!

"We have to find him, Long Haul," I said. "We have to get out there."

Long Haul looked at the window. I followed his gaze. The water had turned murky, and the sea creatures were gone. Seaweed swayed and drifted in the unsettled depths.

"There's a storm brewing on the mainland," Long Haul said. "If we're gonna do this, we'd better do it now. And we'd better all go so we can form Devastator. I'll have to get Hook."

I am still leader, and a more pragmatic thinker than Long Haul, no matter how good a coordinator he is. "No," I said. "We're lucky as it is that Megatron ain't here. The whole load of us flying around unauthorised? That's bad enough. But to have Devastator rampaging around with the team in its current state would be disastrous. Besides – I don't _want_ Hook there!"

Long Haul nodded. "See what you mean, Scrap. He's probably offline anyway, I'd say."

I had the impression he knew more. I didn't want to know it.

And now, I am desperate to find Scavenger. I cannot even stand to think of the terrors he's being subjected to. Of all who deserve it, he does least; and I realize I should have been so much more attentive, more sympathetic. I only pray that we find him in time and that I can put this right.

Long Haul is fetching Mix and Bonecrusher. They have not closed the bond, and I can tell from their responses they are hung over, and I am not happy about that either – _Primus there are gonna be some changes in this team._ But remonstrations with them can wait for another time.

In the meantime, I won't say anything about Hook. I can imagine what Bonecrusher will do. It will stay between Long Haul and me. For now.

...........

**Still at the Decepticon Base, Hook's Quarters ….**

Hook was suddenly online. Extremely nice thoughts were in his processor. Pleasant, comforting scents filled his olfactories, blending with the delicious warmth of the body which throbbed against him. _The Insecticon's body._ Hook wasflung across it, with his head on Shrapnel's shoulder.

An even nicer tingling filled the connection, still in place between them.

Hook let data transmitting this information trickle down the connection, as he curled into Shrapnel. The Insecticon's arm tightened gently around him. He wondered what had brought him online. He could sense 'something.' Was it to do with his team? But no, the bond was still closed. Hook was too snug and happy to give it much attention.

But he _was_ online. His gaze moved across the purple chest to the antler which hung over the edge of the berth. So _big_ from here, it spread out, a mighty structure of dull silver.

"Do those stay active when you're in recharge?" Hook had asked.

"No-no. I disconnect the power to them. That way I can lie on them, them." Shrapnel had said.

Hook had the urge again to touch it. Surely that would be all right? But he could not be sure; and he remembered Shrapnel's gentle reproach. "The damage is not too bad, bad," he had said. "But it could have been worse, much worse, worse. That is why I said no touch, touch."

But he had not seemed displeased, all the same, at Hook's euphoria even through the burned circuits. Just a little sad.

"I feel all right," Hook had said – even though he knew he was really quite badly hurt. And then, because even so he _could not bear_ the thought of Shrapnel never doing that again, he had said.

"Next time. I could – like – give you a _sign?_ Maybe?"

He had heard of such things. Wondered about them. He'd also treated results where _signs_ \- and safe words - didn't seem to have worked. He never thought he'd make such a suggestion himself.

Shrapnel had laughed softly, but affectionately. "Once I am charged, I cannot take heed of _signs,_ Hook, Hook," he'd said. "However, there is something else …"

Hook remembered drinking from Shrapnel's arm, the almost immediate sense of well being, his self repairs accelerating to a speed which made it quite easy to see why the Decepticons had valued Insecticons during the war, and made himself almost shout out loud at what an amazing medicine he'd just discovered.

"I think, perhaps, that you and I can explore each other much and work out what are your limits, limits." Shrapnel had said. "A useful exercise for me in self control, control. It will please Bombshell-shell."

That had all sounded fine to Hook. In fact, he'd felt very good, and extremely relaxed, by then. The idea of more of what had happened did not seem a bad idea at all. He'd squirmed against Shrapnel, in a way which made that rather obvious.

"Do you trust me, me?" Shrapnel had asked.

"Yes," Hook had said, surprised at how easily he had come out with that. Whether he _should_ did not seem to matter.

"Good, because I need you to be open, open, and to share, share."

 _What for?_ It had been on Hook's lips. He was not even sure why he wanted Shrapnel so badly _._ But why Shrapnel wanted him, had chosen him, thought him being undamaged so important; surely that he must know _. Mustn't he?_ Could he really trust instincts, not logic?

But Shrapnel had distracted him. "Turn over," he had said, his hands already stroking, caressing.

Hook had turned him on to his front. And then Shrapnel had started to massage, sliding over plates, stroking here, kneading there. As he worked, he'd murmured in a language which was not Cybertronian but sounded ancient and alien, and echo of distant reaches in the Universe, exotic realms that Hook had no knowledge of. Shrapnel had found the release mechanism for the crane shaft and pulled it out, rubbing up and down its length. Hook had dissolved in an ecstasy of sensation.

And as he succumbed to the Insecticon's ministrations, it occurred to Hook how different this was from his team mates, how always with them, he was the one of whom there were expectations. Scrapper's need to possess him, Mixmaster's need for understanding, Bonecrusher's for aggressive direction and Scavenger's for reassurance and affection.

Did they ever think about whether he, Hook, might need some of these things? Yet in this realization had been no anger; Hook was too happy, too indulged to think of them, too swept away by Shrapnel, who seemed to have no expectations, only that he be himself, and share, and trust him.

Shrapnel 's fingers had kept exploring. _Frag, he was good._ They'd moved gradually down, exploring aft, thighs, the seams on his pelvic armour. By then Hook had been well aroused. Circling movements on the insides of his thighs had made him whimper, his still-open valve ache and throb. Shrapnel's fingers had quickly found it.

By then, Hook had felt Shrapnel's excitement rising again, could tell from the hissing intakes and crackle to the antlers that Shrapnel was charged again. But no blasting release was forthcoming – and nor, Hook had found, did he even want that for now. All the sensation seemed to have diverted to his valve.

Shrapnel had reached under him, gently pulled him on to all fours. There were fingers, then Shrapnel's smooth, long glossa, licking and feeling, slowly and sensuously finding its way around the walls and nodes. Periodically, Shrapnel had let off small ripples of electricity, which scintillated through his circuits, adding to the already exquisite sensations.

Hook sensed these weren't proper overloads. But they seemed to keep Shrapnel happy. Hook had moaned, moving his pelvis in time, almost delirious at the sheer intensity of the pleasure.

It was not long before his valve was wide open and he was trembling, dying to be filled with more than fingers or glossa.

Shrapnel had known this. He'd stopped. "I am going to fuck you like I do Kickback, Kickback," he'd said, kissing Hook's craneshaft. "This will be most pleasant, pleasant. A release of this nature will remove for me the need for large electrical discharge-arge. For now, now."

That evocative human word! A strange term for the Insecticon to use but _frag it sounded nice._ How long since he'd had it that way? And then Hook had remembered that enormous _spike…_

He'd trembled, his fans roaring, wanting Shrapnel in him badly he could hardly bear it.

Shrapnel had pulled Hook's thighs apart. "Oh yes please," he'd rasped.

Then thumbs were spreading the rim of Hook's valve. He'd opened his legs more, and raised his aft, felt the massive tip. He'd baulked in just an instant of apprehension, but then it was sliding in, and his valve, so wet and readied by Shrapnel's glossa, took it easily.

Not that it was pain free. Different to the _zap,_ but still so _good_ and fulfilling. _Never_ had he been filled like that. Even Bonecrusher was not of these dimensions.

Shrapnel had slid in and out, murmuring encouragement in that soft hum of his own language. Hook had felt the Insecticon's need rise, excitement building as heat flared off him, his intakes rasping in short gasps. Shrapnel's movements became faster, the spike slid deeper; and then Shrapnel was fucking him, hard and fast, with Hook hanging on to the berth. His fingers dug holes in the mattress as Shrapnel became almost desperate, as though fucking him might be the last thing in the universe that Shrapnel ever did.

Faster and faster Shrapnel went, deeper and deeper. Hook had groaned, shoving back into him, angling himself so as to take as much as he could, feeling Shrapnel's charge go up and up in time with his own; up and up and up…

There was the crackle of static, ozone in the air, and then Hook hadn't known what was coming, hadn't known at all but it hadn't mattered because oh Primus he just wanted this release now…

Then he was going over, and so was Shrapnel. A rush of fluid in his valve, washing out and running down his thighs. Charge had exploded, but just enough to bathe his circuits, to compliment the rest. Waves of satisfaction through his pulsing, clutching valve.

That overload had finally exhausted Hook. Shrapnel had been pleased. "I thought that would be good, good," he'd said as they settled, him curling Hook on to his shoulder. "When I was insectoid, not Insecticon, that is how we would breed, breed. It brings back good memories, memories."

And Hook had wanted then to ask _why did you say_ that, _and why are you doing all this with me?_ But Shrapnel was caressing him again, feeling the output connector on his hip, this time.

"Share with me, me," Shrapnel had whispered.

"Gladly," Hook said, as he could think of nothing he wanted more. Shrapnel had pulled out Hook's connector, and plugged it in to himself.

He'd been already drifting into recharge. As it took him, Hook had let his firewalls collapse utterly, allowing data to flow copiously. It had seemed the right thing to do. He wanted it. There were no more overloads; only the bliss of joining with Shrapnel.

Now, Shrapnel stirred. Hook came back to the present. He murmured, stroking at the black and purple chest. His cable twitched, as data still trickled through the connection, a tangible record of his deeply fulfilled state.

But Shrapnel was awake. Large red optics onlined, staring for a moment before they settled on Hook. He smiled, and Hook smelled sulphur, ozone and fragrant oil. He snuggled into Shrapnel, wanting to stay like this forever.

It was not to be. But Shrapnel kissed him softly, sensuously, then removed the connection.

"I have to go, go" he said. "There is business to which I must attend. Insecticon business-ness." Detaching gently, he sat up. The blue iridescent glow came into his antlers, the tiny points of light flickering.

The disappointment Hook felt must have showed. 'Don't go, stay,' he wanted to say. Stay, so I don't have to think about the team, or the war, or the universe; or my _situation._

But this didn't go unnoticed, or unattended to. Shrapnel put an arm around him. "I will be back, back," he said. "Believe me Hook, I enjoyed that very much, much. You are special, special."

This time, Hook was asking the question before he had even thought about it. "Why me?" he said.

Shrapnel smiled at him. "Because I want your programming for my clones, clones. Did I not say you would not be extinct-inct?"

He may have been answering a question about the weather, or the price of fuel, or any one of a number of utterly mundane things. Hook felt his jaw drop. Never had he been bombarded with so much which left him so completely devoid of knowing, at that moment, how to react at all.

"Besides, I find myself with a fondness beyond what I expected to have, have" Shrapnel said more softly. "I think perhaps there is more than this, this."

At that point, over the medcom came Soundwave's monotone. "Medic – required. Proceed to medbay. Conehead Thrust. Requires attention."

Hook hardly heard it. "You want – to replicate _me?"_

But Shrapnel had stiffened. He looked worried; distraught, even. "I thought Soundwave was to deal with that himself-self," he muttered. Then he looked at Hook, and a sad look came over him. "When you see Thrust, then do not take anything as an indication of what I might to you, you," he said. "I could. But I would _never, never._ Not if I can ever help it, it… _"_

If Hook had not known more about Insecticons, he would have said that Shrapnel was _emotional…_

Shrapnel planted a lingering kiss on Hook's helm. "Soon, soon…" he said.

But then, Shrapnel was leaving, his alien alloys rustling as he swept through the door. Hook sat there stunned - and utterly confused.

…..

 **Forest,** **Olympic National Park, Washington USA  
**

Scavenger was spreadeagled over him. Kickback's wings, squashed as he held the Constructicon in his arms, were clogged with mud. The whole of him was _covered_ in mud. Normally, he hated that. Right now, he didn't care.

"Am I good or what?" he murmured, looking sideways at Scavenger's face on his shoulder. Even offline, it wore a satisfied little smile; a happy reflection of the revelries of the last few hours.

Kickback had liked it too. More than liked it. Such a change from being leapt on in alt mode, fragged like the miniature Earth versions of him did it. Assaulted by that massive _thing_ of Shrapnel's – not that Kickback didn't like _that;_ but this? Well – it just made a _change, that_ was all.

He'd just have to get Scavenger to touch his wings and antennae more. Perhaps be a bit rougher. Then it would be perfect.

Kickback leaned up and pecked at Scavenger's cheek. Then, happily, he cuddled him, enjoying the sighs of both their intakes as they blended with the noises of the forest.

After a while, however, Kickback really did feel a need to wash off the mud. Raising his head, he peered down at the green back and purple thighs, the shovel cast to one side. From under Scavenger's hip protruded his spike, still extended, still tingling from the releases.

A mixture of mud and Insectifluid was drying on many parts of Scavenger; just as it was on them both. Kickback also knew it formed part of the puddles beneath them. Yes, they should get up.

Besides – Kickback's antennae twitched - he could tell from the _heavy_ feel to the air that the weather was changing. Above the canopy, the sky peeping through was a solid grey.

If Shrapnel had not already left for the mainland, he would now. One look at that sky, and he wouldn't be able to help himself.

Kickback loved Shrapnel's storm driven excitement, loved to watch the Coleopteran's ecstatic releases. There was nothing better than seeing lighting flash in intricate patterns, in soaking up the intensity as Shrapnel absorbed the electric charges and blasted them back out again. But Kickback also knew from long experience - that it _wasn't_ the best thing to be out in for long. Not for the uninitiated, anyway.

"Hey - wake up !" He shook the top of Scavenger's tail, which happened to be next to his hand.

Scavenger stirred, snuggling into him. "What…?" he murmured.

"We gotta go." Kickback said. "But first we gotta get _clean."_

…

A little later, Kickback stood on a fallen tree above the lagoon. Next to him, only just balancing, was a giggling Scavenger, exuberant again having woken up and been topped up with fuel. Kickback wondered now if that – or this – had been wise. But he did want his new friend to have fun.

They'd go to the lair, and Shrapnel would be there soon, and Kickback would be there with his two favourite mechs.

Grabbing the creeper, he planted it in the Constructicon's hands. "Why?" giggled Scavenger.

"Because it's heaps better than just _getting in,"_ Kickback said. "Now - you gotta swing out real hard, then you let go. It can be real stylish-like. Or you can just make a big splash."

 _Wait till you see my style!_ He thought.

Scavenger was laughing uncontrollably. "'s different for you. You got wings. You can fly out. I can't. What if I sink to the bottom and never come up? Oh hahahaha… oops!" Kickback steadied him as he lost his balance and teetered, tail flapping, only just managing not to fall.

"If you sink I'll go down and get ya won't I?" Kickback said. "Now you gotta take this seriously. I'll demonstrate."

Seizing the creeper, Kickback swung deftly out over the pool. "Yeeeeehhh!" See – no wings?" he yelled, he swung high into the air and then let go.

He performed a perfect pike dive, straightening and enjoying the coolness of the water as he plunged into its depths.

…

"That was awesome!" Enthralled, Scavenger took the creeper. How much fun he was having! He still couldn't see the point of this. But hey – who cared? The last few hours were easily the happiest he'd had on Earth.

Grasping the creeper, he hesitated, grinning at Kickback's head bobbing in the water. Then he took a deep intake, and swung out.

Perhaps his control was not as good as he'd thought? Only half way to the point Kickback had reached, he lost his grip and hurtled down. So much for Kickback style finesse! There was a loud splash as the water hit his panels.

And then, he was indeed sinking into the depths; though it was not unpleasant, surrounded as he was by calm murky green, weed and plankton which floated past.

An arm gripped his waist, warm metal against him. Then Scavenger was rushing up, up. He burst out on to the surface of the lagoon, and there was Kickback's laughter, the aliveness of the forest, the cool moist air filling his intakes.

"Hives! I thought you were joking when you said that. Do I get a prize for saving you twice today?"

Kickback was chortling as he hauled him to the shallows. He found he could stand. Kickback was still next to him. His wings stretched above the water, and Kickback strummed them, a shower of droplets cascading over them both.

An almost overwhelming rush of feeling enveloped Scavenger. Kickback cared! And it didn't matter how much of a jerk he, Scavenger, was, Kickback still wanted to save him. He liked him; wanted to be his friend. And to frag him. Only this time, Scavenger thought he might just do that to Kickback.

And from the way Kickback had responded to certain things before, he thought he might know _just_ how to do that. He would repay him – and show how sensitive he was to Insecticon needs.

He stroked Kickback's face. Then, cautiously, he ran a hand up one of the antennae.

Kickback shuddered hard. Static crackled through Scavenger's hand. For a moment the Insecticon optics were wild, his face like that of an untamed creature. Then, he laughed.

"Gotta be a bit careful with that," he rasped. "But awww - _nice!"_

It was. Scavenger did it again, liking Kickback's squeal, the currents which can up his arm feeding straight into his rapidly building charge. Then he grabbed Kickback by the wings, and kissed him, hard.

The kiss went on, fingers tightening on metal as heat rose and intakes hissed. Scavenger felt Kickback's wings vibrate, his spike hard against him. He unleashed his own, pushing it forward to drive into the Insecticon's hip. Then, still kissing, he manoeuvred Kickback to the bank, his tail thrashing as he pinned the Insecticon down.

Kickback, evidently, was enthralled. "Hey – I ain't done it in here before!" he chirped, as he was flattened against the Earthy surface. "And this way's cool!"

"Well I'm gonna do you in here now," Scavenger said, surprised and delighted at the confidence in his own voice. His fingers were already feeling for the Insecticon's valve.

…..

**At the Decepticon Base....**

As Shrapnel strode to the exit tower, the Insecticon became more and more agitated.

If Bombshell had screwed this up…

Shrapnel may not understand this uncanny fondness he had for his new lover, but it was real and urgent. Shrapnel missed Hook already. Analysis of the data over the last few hours whilst the Decepticon slept in his arms had confirmed all his theories. Now he was darned if Soundwave – or anyone – was going to disturb what he planned to put in train.

 _The Conehead._ What would Hook think when he saw Thrust? He would know, wouldn't he, what had caused that? What if he didn't believe that he, Shrapnel, would not do it to him? Hook was sensitive, and prone to doubt. Gaining his trust in so short a time was not only testament to Shrapnel's talents, but a miracle of sorts, confirming only the 'rightness' of his choice.

And then there was the other possibility. That Thrust, recovered just enough to be dangerous, might 'take it out' on Hook. And not that Shrapnel wouldn't go back and give Thrust twice as much grief as he'd had already if he did, but what if he damaged him in the interim?

And he couldn't do anything about it. Because he had to see Bombshell, had to complete their agenda. Well he might just get the other Coleopteran to adjust that.

Protective fury surged through Shrapnel, mingling with excess electric charge, carefully stored during the latter stages of their lovemaking but now breaking into the channel relays, threatening to explode. He thundered along, venting heavily. If ever he had needed a storm, it was now.

Then there was Bombshell, standing coolly next to the tower exit.

"Bombshell!" Shrapnel gasped. "I need I need, need need…"

"Shrapnel!" Bombshell frowned. Then there was a restraining hand on his arm, the firm, familiar grip of the older Coleopteran, his unrelenting gaze. "Calm down. Whatever is the matter with you?"

"I'll kill him!" Shrapnel raged. His antlers crackled, loudly. "If anything happens to Hook. I'll kill Soundwave-ave. I'll kill Thrust Thrust. They'll be history-istory. I'll - I'll - I'll …"

"Enough!" Bombshell was stern, his grip tightening. "If _this_ is to be a side effect, then we will have to think carefully about continuing down this path at all!"

It had a sobering effect, aeons of Bombshell, the former Pleiadian politician turned psychiatrist, an elder and very much Shrapnel's superior on his homeworld, asserting his authority as was the Insecticon way. Bombshell was perfectly capable of abandoning Hook as a prospect, and Shrapnel knew it.

He regarded Bombshell, giving in but still smarting. "Why didn't Soundwave fix him, him?"

"The Coneheads objected to Soundwave treating Thrust, so he passed Thrust on to Hook," Bombshell said. "It fitted well with our plans. It made Soundwave look accommodating. All the easier for him to have them believe he meant it when he organized the posse to go after us. Now – we need to be out there and ready when Dirge's arrogance makes them attempt to fly into the storm you are going to create. Which you _are_ going to create, are you not?"

Shrapnel felt self control returning, brought on by the calm aura of the other Coleopteran. While he, Shrapnel, managed this lot of the time, he did so nowhere near as completely as Bombshell. "He will not hurt Hook, Hook?" he asked.

The lift arrived. "My dear Coleopteran," Bombshell said as they got into it. "He is in no state to hurt Hook. You did a fair old number there, Shrapnel. It would do to remember that the traditional Coleopteran Way is one of even retribution, not overkill. Still, the mech is most unlikeable, and was a poor choice. I am not sorry, and most certainly neither is Soundwave."

Shrapnel felt better. But now there were different sensations. The memories of the Constructicon, fierce desire mingling with the anticipated storm. Charge swelled his circuits and excitement surged, augmented by the prospects of further payback to the other offenders in the attack on Kickback.

"How was Soundwave-wave?" he asked.

"Excellent," Bombshell said. "Cooperative, and a very useful assistant in our cause. He is in complete approval of my studying Dirge - who incidentally I don't want roughed up _too_ much, Shrapnel. You can concentrate on the other one."

Had Shrapnel been listening, he may have protested. But he was too busy anticipating the exit, the glorious outdoors, the relief from the confines of the base and his rapidly escalating charge.

The lift stopped and they stepped out. Instantly, a strong wind whipped Shrapnel's frame. Clouds scudded across a darkening grey sky. Below, the calm blue sea of earlier was a churning grey mass, slapping the sides of the tower, sending spray hurtling into the stinging air.

Shrapnel became a mass of quivering steel and pent up energy. Those clouds! They were rich with ionic particles, just waiting for his input. The charge escalated to a point of pain, his channel circuits unable to resist the pressure. He arched back, letting them open, allowing charge to sear out and fire into the clouds, exploding in a blast of lightning.

Bombshell tut-tutted as the clouds lit up, and thunder rumbled out to sea. "You are in a state," he said. "But tell, me, aside from all this angst, I take it you're satisfied that you made the right decision?"

The clouds were too thin to elicit any proper buildup. But the release had relieved the pressure. Just a little. "More than satisfied-fied!" Shrapnel gasped. But his focus was now elsewhere. Over towards the mainland, the sky grew gradually darker, blackening in the distance. That was where he needed to be.

Bombshell followed his gaze. "You are fortunate," he said. "Conditions north east are perfect. I suggest we get you there and you get busy. The message we send when those idiots fly into the storm will be all the more spectacular, the sooner we get started."

"Indeed-deed," Shrapnel needed no further urging. He was already transforming.

"Don't forget Kickback, either," Bombshell cautioned as he rose into the air. "Further recalcitrance would not be helpful."

Shrapnel whipped round in a circle, faster than any jet, the wind rushing through his antlers like sweet salvation. He was still charged. But now he would contain it for the mainland. "I will make it up to Kickback , Kickback!"

"Probably as well that you don't have a go at him in this state," Bombshell muttered as they sped away. "Much as I enjoy your indulgences, I don't think even I could withstand them at the present time."

…

Still stunned, Hook made his way to medbay.

Why was he going there? Oh yes. Thrust. That's right. Stupid Coneheads were always getting themselves smashed up. As if he needed this now. What had Shrapnel said?

But Hook could not even think of that. He could not think of anything but Shrapnel, and _the other thing_ Shrapnel had said. And his processor whirred with confusion. On the one hand, his body still throbbed with interface and aftermath, his spark hot in his chest. He'd been chosen for clone replication; and that was – kinda wonderful.

But hadn't Shrapnel rather _duped_ him? Cos was that really _immortality?_

He thought of replication, Cybertronian style? Unilateral replication produced copies; bilateral, a combined programming from two mechs. Bilateral was superior, used in higher castes. What was the difference?

 _Our clones would have all my thoughts all my memories. And his._ Did that make a difference? _And there would be_ _hundreds of versions. Thousands, tens of thousands, even_ … Whereas replication produced a single protoform, two at the most? _Does that mean I go on?_ _Or will everything I have been be no more?_

Hook could not answer that. But he found himself feeling not adverse to Shrapnel. Thousands of versions of himself? It wasn't a bad thought at all! In fact, Hook felt rather chuffed. He warmed to the Insecticon. He remembered that strange connection between them, even before the interface, where Shrapnel had almost seemed to read his mind. _He knew what I wanted._

In a sense, he had been given it; had chosen Hook for that purpose. Of all the mechs on this planet, _he_ had been chosen! No, only fondness was in Hook's spark as he neared the medbay.

He paused before the door. He smiled. No, this was more than 'not bad.' It was – _amazing_ , _Shrapnel was amazing._ And from the way he'd been before he left, there was plenty more to come.

But something else entwined with this; an ache, not for Shrapnel, but for the team. For Hook had been given something, a precious thing. He realized he felt better, more whole, and able to cope with their needs. A sudden longing to explain this seized him.

But Scrapper would replace him. Although - no - Hook was certain he could stop that. Things were different, now. But he could not quite yet bring himself to open the bond.

Activating his comm, Hook called Long Haul. Scrapper had been with Long Haul. Talking to Long Haul was easier than it was to Scrapper. He would put Long Haul on notice, and sort this out later.

But Long Haul didn't answer. There was a message: _All gone to the mainland to get Scavenger. Talk later. Take care. Long._

Hook turned the comm off.What about Scavenger? What had the idiot gotten himself into this time? Hook sighed. Perhaps he _would_ leave things for a little while longer before he saw them.

Striding through the medbay door, Hook was unprepared for the sight which greeted him, the charred red body and the blackened optics which peered from under the buckled cone. He stopped short, his optics widening in surprise.

"Primus," he said.

Thrusts' optics were murderous. "Shuddup and get me fixed!" he snarled.

...

 **Forest,** **Olympic National Park , Washington USA**

"This is awesome," Scavenger panted, thrusting into Kickback as he pinned him. And it was. The long thin Cybertronian spike penetrating far up, the hot chest, the slender hips banging against him as water slapped and sloshed.

Then there were those fingers, gripping his wings, that aft, the treaded legs, the feel of that _shovel shaft_ \- all had combined to bring Kickback rapidly to the brink of overload; on which he now teetered, almost reluctant to go over and spoil the sensations.

But he did not want to wait. Opening his legs, he grabbed Scavenger by the aft and pulled him in hard, bucking his hips with Scavenger's thrusts. "Oh yeah!" he yelled, as small waves crashed into the bank. "Harder, yeah! That's it – _ooooh_ yeah I really am gonna… aaaawwwwww Scavenger, grab my antenna, for frag's sake grab it…"

It had been good, building up the charge. As he went over, electricity shot out of Kickback, sending the water into a frenzy of boiling and crackling. Scavenger erupted in a mass of sparks; his tail rising out of the water. Little currents danced down it. For a moment, his face was a picture – a fascinating combination of overload and utter surprise. But then, he laughed out loud and fell against Kickback.

And then Scavenger was clutching him, still laughing as spasms ricocheted through both of them. Yep - there was no doubt he'd liked that. And Kickback had known it. He _could_ do that – whatever Shrapnel said. They stayed together, still joined panting as steam rose. The waters gradually stilled.

"Oh yeah!" Kickback panted. "You're something. And _that_ was something, wasn't it? Y'see, I ain't as good at that as Shrap, but I ain't bad."

Scavenger fell weakly around Kickback's neck and they held each other. "I think you're just wonderful," he said. They held each other, as wind rushed gently through the trees, sending a light rain of pine needles and leaves raining down and little ripples skittering.

It was then that drops of rain began to plop around them, and in the distance, thunder rumbled.

Kickback perked up, pushing Scavenger away. His antennae gave a short burst of wild twitching. "There's a storm coming," he said. "Shrapnel will be back by now. And that means things are about to get hot. C'mon!"

…..

Scavenger could feel Kickback's excitement, tangible and thrilling. His energy field crackled as Kickback grabbed his hands and pulled him up the bank. Another rumble of thunder and rain fell more heavily.

"C'mon!" Kickback said. "Let's fly!"

The Insecticon transformed and buzzed away through the trees. Scavenger did not follow straight away. He watched, thinking how amazing Kickback looked zipping between the trees, how incredible that his wings strummed so fast they were a blur to the optic. It was just another awesome aspect to this awesome Insecticon, who'd survived all this time without any other Orthopterans.

But as for him doing that? Well sure his flying had improved exponentially earlier. But here, now? In this weather?

Kickback did a circuit around and returned. "What's the hold up?" he yelled. As he hovered, the light flickered, the first signs of distant lightning.

The forest was darkening rapidly, rain pattering into the lagoon in a thousand circles. The wind got up, a sudden whoosh through the trees, sweeping the rain sideways. Thunder boomed again, this time closer.

"I don't think…" Scavenger began.

"You can do it! Fly with me!" Kickback yelled. Transforming back to root mode, he held out a hand.

And then, the forest was lit up as the trees bent in the wind and the rain came hard, flurrying in patterns. Well hell – he'd flown quite a long way before he crashed, hadn't he? He'd done lots of things right today. Like screw Kickback…

"All right!" Scavenger grasped the hand.

They rose into the air; the wind buffeted Scavenger's frame as they zigzagged through the trees. And then Kickback let go, and there was Scavenger flying all by himself, adjusting his Thrusters and ducking and weaving, not even coming close to crashing, even though the wind tore at him.

"Told ya!" Kickback's voice came over the din.

Then lightning began to come in a series of flashes, whilst the thunder turned to an almost continuous booming and the rain came down in torrents. " _Now_ we land!" Kickback yelled. "Dunno what got into Shrap. But I reckon we oughtta go on foot. Our lair ain't far now!"

Scavenger didn't really know what he meant. He cared not, however. Stumbling happily, he followed Kickback through the storm.

...

**Decepticon Base**

The more Hook saw, the more he reeled with horrible fascination. There was no doubt now as to the meaning of Shrapnel's words. For Thrust was charred inside, his core burned badly, his circuits a series of fritzed wires and congealed conduits. His spark functioned, pulsing too hard in the failure of self repair.

_Is this what I can expect. If I don't do what he wants. Or even of I do?_

But no. Hook remembered the distraught look in Shrapnel's optics. _Never you, you…_ And could he not have done this at any time during their coupling, but had held back every time, made every effort?

Still, Hook saw now what Shrapnel meant, the reason for his caution. It was a sobering demonstration.

But it was payback. The Coneheads had attacked Kickback. And Thrust was obnoxious. He moaned and glitched and complained, picking up on every little deficiency he perceived in his treatment. As he worked on, Hook became less horrified, as a satisfied feeling seeped in. Thrust had not warranted the same attention that he, Hook, had been lavished with.

Clearly, Thrust was the opposite of 'special.'

Although it was different. Hook confessed to curiosity. Why had Shrapnel interfaced with this aft? Prostitution, that's right. He needed the credits? But how had it gone from Thrust paying for Shrapnel's services, to this?

Thrust was not divulging details. "How long is this gonna take?" he snarled.

"A long time," Hook said. He took pleasure in saying it. "I can fix up the basics now. Then it might be preferable to render you unconscious and put you on life support."

Thrust made an irritated sounding noise. Then, he started rambling. "Slaggin' bugs. Who do they think they are… set themselves up … little one flashing his wings… course we're gonna have some fun."

Hook's hands froze as he seethed inside, amazed at how much the term' bug' got to him, at how much this affected him. "I'm going to have to get that cone off your head," He was pleased at how painful and unpleasant that was likely to be.

The moron wouldn't shut up. "Mind you, I've had some fun with the other one too," he went on. "Wasn't always like it was today, see? You shoulda seen him squeal other times."

Hook could barely contain his fury. Now, he was immensely pleased at how Thrust had been 'dealt with.' But it did not stop the pain that went through his spark, the outrage.

It almost overrode the medical program. Hook paused again. For a moment, he considered leaving Thrust a charred mess, doomed to a slow and painful demise. The program only just won out.

"Just hold steady for me," he said through gritted denta, picking up the saw from the table. Activating the device, he brandished it, pleased at the way Thrust's optics bulged in alarm.

The saw wailed, and Thrust's yells joined its mournful whine as Hook split open the cone. Yanking it off, he shoved it on the table next to Thrust, in full view. But Thrust wasn't looking. Intakes rasping, his optics filled with a hideous malevolence, he was off again.

"Y'know who I blame? Them Seekers. How was I s'posed to know that one'd gotten himself some _special power?"_

His face took on an ugly look of pure hatred. "Well they _ain't_ so special. That winged one didn't look no different from them others back then. We'll get him yet. We'll do to him what we did to 'em before the war, see? Got a few credits for that. Magnus wasn't fussy who he paid those days."

Hook was shaking, the pain in his spark almost unbearable. He remembered how the Insecticon had been, but the fierce passion with which Shrapnel had fought to contain himself. Then he was angry, more angry than he had been since awakening on Earth, than he remembered being even in the long aeons before their stasis.

In one movement, he had picked up the saw again and swept it against Thrust's throat. It whined, threateningly.

"If you ever say anything like that again," he said, hearing in his voice a chilling smoothness, the sort of deadlines he'd heard only from mechs like Vortex in interrogations. "I will kill you. Do you understand?"

But Hook wasn't Vortex. Much as he might have liked to be at that moment. Thrust looked up at him, a horrible leer on his faceplates.

"You like 'em, don't ya?" He cackled. "Well whaddya know? Reckon we got ourselves a bug lover."

Hook could hear no more. Throwing the saw down, he grabbed Thrust's wrist. Then he yanked out the connector, and jacked forcefully in. It took astroseconds to override that part of the medical code to do with 'maintaining functionality' and consent, to batter down Thrust's firewalls and knock him unconscious.

No doubt, First Aid would have baulked at such travesty – no matter who the patient. That was why Hook was a Decepticon, and First Aid hadn't become one. It had its uses.

…..

 **Forest,** **OlympicNational Park, Washington USA**

The forest shuddered, branches cracking and falling as the rain lashed down, tinging off the robots, almost obscuring the way ahead. Lightning blasted out, illuminating the forest. Almost immediately, thunder boomed.

Scavenger hung on to Kickback's hand as they strained against the wind, not minding being pulled along. Their feet made a _slap-slap_ sound as they ran, wind howling through the trees.

"Lair's just through there!" Kickback yelled. But Scavenger now pulled Kickback to a near standstill, as the enchantment of the storm took effect.

He'd never been much one for them before. But the sheer power of it! The trees roared above, rain flurried down in curtains. They sheeted into the ground, where now ran rivers, water carving trenches in the soft forest floor.

Enthralled, tail swinging wildly, Scavenger bent closer to examine one. Mini geological events unfolded before his optics.

Another rush of euphoria took him. _I'm a geologist. I'm a great geologist. And I can fly and run and make Insecticons yell out when they overload…_

" _Now_ what?" Kickback yelled above the din. His wings fluttered and vibrated, antennae going wild.

"Water erosion," Scavenger, shouted back. "It normally takes millions of years!"

The wind and rain strengthened. There was a loud crack, as a tree fell nearby, crashing through the forest as lightning rent the sky again.

"Come ON!" Kickback yelled. Grabbing Scavenger's hand, he pulled him forward.

But Scavenger hesitated. For he had sensed something else, a distant tug of feelings; the concern of other mechs. His team! He had almost forgotten them. Scrapper was there, and Long Haul; he strained to feel more, sensing Bonecrusher and Mixmaster.

They were out in this storm! And they were all looking for him. So intense had the last few hours been, he had not even heard them.

"Wait!" he wailed.

"Come ON! We're HERE!" Scavenger could see through the rain ahead a camp and chairs. He could dimly see, looming behind it, a cliff and three large holes. As lightning flashed again, Kickback hauled him towards one. And then they were inside, and he was scrambling on his hands and knees down a tunnel, his shovel catching on the rocky sides.

He emerged into a cave, large and airy. He forgot his team mates, standing up slowly as he stared around.

In the centre was a berth of sorts. It looked to be of organic matter – branches, leaves and moss. Various utensils lay beside it, used bowls and plates and cubes. Scattered nearby was a pile of wood chunks. Very definite teeth marks showed.

Around every wall were rows of shelves. Paraphernalia decorated the alcoves, a staggering variety. Near the entrance sat a collection of large, grinning skulls. But the most striking of all - the thing which most caught Scavenger's attention - was a table on which sat the most stunning crystals Scavenger had ever seen.

"You like it?"

Scavenger stared, mesmerised. But then, the wind howled outside and the bond's presence reasserted itself, a terrible sickening fear taking root.

"My comm!" he said, trying it. But however well the Insectifuel might have repaired other bits of him, that, evidently, was still fragged.

Scavenger panicked. "Scrapper!" he yelled. "Long Haul. Hook! I'm here!" he turned to Kickback in desperation. "My team! I gotta get to my team!"

Then, somehow, he was on the makeshift berth, and Kickback's arms were round him, holding him, firm and reassuring.

"Hey - it'll be all right," said the Insecticon. "We can contact 'em. I got a device, see?"

….

**Decepticon Base**

Hook worked on with Thrust, replacing the elements in his core, connecting up to more complex relays. He longed to be away form here, to go find Shrapnel again, to Hold the Insecticon and tell him he appreciated what he had done, was doing, and that he would help him; so much did he admire Shrapnel's brave stance in the universe against such hideous adversity.

Even more, he wanted to see his team. Tell them they were good mechs, that he appreciated them, had enjoyed their history together, and wanted it to go on. But despite his flaunting of the code, it would not allow him to abandon Thrust altogether – a fact which irked Hook and was making him more irritable by the moment; so much did he want to be done with this and away from medbay.

He was not expecting the sudden chill in the air, the uncomfortable prickle to his sensor net. It took only microseconds to register that this was unconnected with his previous thought processes, and due to a new, external circumstance. He registered Dirge even before he'd figured it out.

Dirge was always inexplicably and ciccuit chillingly unnerving. The mech seemed to embody dark unknowns, the very horrors that Hook dreaded. And unlike the other Coneheads, who simply could not register emotion or discomfort in another, Dirge could, and enjoyed it. This was perhaps the most chilling aspect of Dirge - and the reason most Decepticons went out of their way to avoid him.

Today, in the wake of Thrust's comments, of Kickback's attack, however, Hook felt nothing but a guttural and unrestrained hatred.

"What do you want?" he snarled.

"Just came to check on m'team mate," Dirge droned.

"He's very badly damaged," Hook took great pleasure in saying. "I'll do what I can." _Not that I want to,_ he wanted to add.

Dirge moved closer. He smelled of rust and decaying metal. "Reckon he got himself in a spot," he said, looking down on Thrust. "Told him 'bout th'rumours, how he oughtn't t'mess with the lightning bug. Dumb fragger. Couldn't help h'self."

Hook's pique lifted a fraction. "Well perhaps he'll be a bit more cautious in the future."

Dirge nodded. Then he laughed, a horrible sound. "Might not be necessary, as it happens," he drawled. "When he comes around, tell him we're goin' after the Insecticons. This time we got the Seekers in on it. We're gonna blast that whole forest wi'cluster bombs. Won't be nothin' left of none of it …" he chuckled, "or much else in those parts."

Hook's hands froze as his spark turned to ice. It wasn't just the implications for the Insecticons but – _my team. My team are there._

"You do realize unauthorised attacks are prohibited!" His voice wavered, as he fought to stay calm. "The Autobots are bound to launch an offensive."

"Pretty hard when their bits n'pieces are scattered all around too."

Dirge smirked. "Reckon Megatron's gonna be mighty pleased when he sees th'results. Gonna open up a whole new era for us Coneheads." He looked up at Hook, his greyish lips twisted into a smile. "Been a bit dull around here lately, don't you think, doc?"

Hook didn't answer. He was thinking, hard; thinking what he could do to save the only mechs in the Universe who – with the exception of First Aid, who would always have a place somewhere – he actually cared about.

Dirge moved closer. The smell made Hook want to gag. "Kinda weird, doc," Dirge said. "Somehow I'd a thought you'da been more pleased about getting' some revenge for a fellow Decepticon."

Hook's head swum, but he could do nothing about the expression on his face, or his stifled vocaliser.

Dirge nodded. "So tell him. Right? An' say the antlered bug's on me."

He was gone, the door hissing shut, footsteps dying away as he clanked off up the corridor.

Protective imperative burst through the medical programming, obliterating its hold. Nothing mattered to Hook any more but the mechs who were in danger.

Nevertheless, Hook still closed the wound over Thrust's core, soldering it roughly before clicking in the connections for life support. With a rapid check to his bandaged head and noting that no energon leaked, he set the sequences to run.

Then he quickly tidied up, and performed a quick ablution. With no room for further barriers or recriminations, he was already opening the bond as he headed for the exit tower.

Thrust would not die. His recovery would just take longer. Hook would deal with the consequences later.

...

 **Forest,** **Olympic National Park, Washington USA**

Kickback had known the device would come in handy.

And it had! Scavenger had calmed right down. He set it down in the centre of the room, near the berth. He just hoped that today it worked. It was a cool device – but it could be temperamental. Especially in here – even though it was only thing between here and the surface. And especially in this weather.

Although the storm was passing on. Howling wind could no longer be heard. Instead, there was just a steady _drip drip_ in various sections of the cave which weren't quite as watertight as Kickback would have liked.

Scavenger was staring at his creation. Kickback supposed the thing _would_ be strange looking to a non Insecticon. A pile of skulls were bound together with sinews. They were mounted on a block to which were attached dials of varying sizes. Wires protruded in various place.

Of course, the skulls weren't strictly necessary. He could have just used the old transistor box he'd found. But the skulls were much cooler.

From the top, a familiar looking antenna protruded.

"What the frag is that?" Scavenger cried.

"Good old fashioned radio!" Kickback said, proud of his creation. "Antler's a spare one of Shrapnel's. Works just as well for this as a lightning conductor. But don't tell him."

"You can hear all stuff going on all over the planet," he went on, twiddling at the dials. Squeaks and static issued forth. "You should be able to get your team mates. I can get Shrapnel and Bombshell. Though they don't usually like to be disturbed."

They didn't. Which was why he wasn't allowed an internal comm device. Today, however, they could darned well make an exception.

"Hurry!" There was panic in Scavenger's optics again. It hurt, somehow. Kickback had gotten close to his new lover in the last few hours. He needed to look after him. He would put an end to this suffering just as soon as he could.

Kickback twisted dials. More squealing sounds, snatches of music and voices.

"Wait! That sounded like Scrapper!"

Kickback tuned the dial back to where it was. Sure enough, a voice came through loud and clear. "Storm seems to be moving offshore, it said. An unusual path, but it should make our search easier. I suggest we start with the coastline…"

"Noooo!" Scavenger pushed past him. "I need to talk into it!" he said. His hands flapped, his tail flailing behind him.

"Oh yeah!" Kickback had almost forgotten that bit. Plugging a rusty looking microphone into the device, he handed it to Scavenger.

"It's me, Scavenger, and I'm here!" Scavenger yelled into it.

There was silence. Then the same voice. "Scavenger. I am relieved you are all right, but far from happy with this conduct! Your coordinates please?"

Blimey! He sounded like Bombshell! Kickback warmed to Scavenger even more.

Scavenger only just had time to transmit the coordinates, before the device cut out. Kickback shrugged. "Oh well," he said. "I tried!"


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hook encounters problems when trying to stop the Coneheads, but finds he has more than one 'saviour.'
> 
> *Warnings:* This story contains Insecticon/Constructicon sex, sticky, P&P, tactile, oral. Explicit - please don't read if you don't like sticky. Also has a form of BDSM, violent noncon insecticon/conehead sex, prostitution, drug use and energon drinking in a quite vampiric style. Notions of procreation, of the cloning type. Definitely not mechpreg, however.  
> Although this fic has some dark 'moments,' I'm also warning for fluff/angst/romance - and crack.
> 
> This chapter has mild violence, near death experience, and mega fluff.

**PART 6**

**EVENING**

**From the Journal of Scrapper, Constructicon Leader, Decepticon Command Earth Contingent 1984.**

Us Constructicons really are not flying mechs. I knew when we saw the dark sky over the mainland what was coming.

I tried to focus, and not think ‘what have we become?’ The others bunched closely around me, strong and protective.  Periodically, we clanged into each other, buffeted by the rising wind. I could not shake the sense of dread as the sky darkened, lightning forking down in brilliant gashes ahead.

I made us stay together, and try to fly in a straight line. As we neared the coast the rain came, lashing against us as the storm hit with fury.

It took some effort to cover the last distance, over the massive waves which through a mist of spray, and the rain that crashed on to the beach. It was lucky there was a cave, to which we ran, clanking, for shelter. And there we had to stay, hardly able to hear our own vocalisers over the din from the wind and the waves and the booming thunder, which seemed to go on forever.

It may not have been more severe than any other storm on this part of the globe, but under the circumstances, it seemed worse than any I have ever known. I only just stopped from breaking down, in utter despair. Even Bonecrusher and Mixmaster had gone quiet, and Long Haul sat alone, silent and pensive. The same dreadful fear was on all our minds.

But then, a ripple ran through the bond, the nascent stirrings of a familiar signature. We all perked up simultaneously. There was another. We looked at each other; then, simultaneously, all laughed - for we all knew at once that Scavenger had opened the gestalt connection. He was all right! In fact, he seemed more than all right. If a little anxious, because we were anxious.

The storm was still too intense for us to comm him. But it mattered not, the relief was overwhelming. My comrades fell into each others' arms, and I also hugged them in turn. But it was then that it became apparent, the terrible absence that was Hook, still missing. Still with the bond shut. Nobody spoke of it, but they all thought it. The mood changed abruptly.  _They’re blaming me,_ I thought.

If only he would just open it and I could tell him; that I just - _loved_ him and could not cope with that fact. That I could only admit that now, in this desperate situation, was devastating. It was as well that I could not consider it for long; that a very weak, crackly transmission came through on our comms.

It was Scavenger! Everyone was instantly happy again. But almost as soon, I was cross. He had worried us sick, and risked our lives. I did not have much chance to say this, however, for the comm cut out. He had done little more than transmit his coordinates.

Yes, we did have those. And the weather was easing, as the storm seemed to be moving away from the mainland. Soon after, we took off over the forest. It did not take us long to reach where he was.

When I saw where we had arrived - at the Insecticon lair - my fear sprang up again. In the dank, dripping forest there was nobody in sight, only three empty chairs, a dead camp fire and the remains of a meal. Three holes loomed in the cliff behind.

Was this a trap? I ordered the team to draw weapons and spread out.

But then, there was a scrabbling noise; and out of one hole came Scavenger, grinning and obviously unharmed. Behind him came the smaller Insecticon, the winged one with the antennae, the one that had gotten injured, that Hook fixed.  Straight away I saw that they were holding hands.  

A cheer went up. My colleagues greeted them warmly. I cannot say, however, that I was amused. After all my efforts to get the team right, all our worries, - and now this? “Scavenger, come here instantly!” I said. “Obviously, we need to talk.” And I told the others to get ready straight away to fly back.

But the Insecticon – whose name is Kickback, it turns out – laughed. “Storm’s gone out to sea,” he said. “You really think you’re gonna get through that now Shrap’s had a go? And anyway, hey – lighten up! We got this place to ourselves, and I got energon.”

“He’s got more than just energon,” Scavenger giggled.

I did not, of course, know what they meant. Nor was I particularly inclined to find out. But to my chagrin, the others showed interest - and then, they were walking away! I watched helplessly as Bonecrusher sat down in a chair whilst Mixmaster started to play with the fire.  Well I was not having this. “Constructicons, pay attention!” I said. But they didn’t.

 Kickback disappeared into another hole next to the one from which he and Scavenger had emerged.

“Please …” Scavenger was looking at me imploringly; and then Long Haul clapped me on the shoulder.

“He’s right Scrap!” he said. “Besides, I reckon you need a drink. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”

Mixmaster had gotten the fire going. Kickback had returned, with bottles and cubes which he cracked open.  Wood smoke blended nicely with the aroma of high grade, and twigs crackled as the fire got going. It looked cosy.  “Hey!” Kickback said, “Come an’ join us.”

Bone and Mix looked at me encouragingly, Long Haul was sitting down, a grin on his face. Kickback threw his arm around Scavenger and jerked his head towards the third chair. His antennae twitched encouragingly.

I gave in. And here we are now. I’m watching Mixmaster and Bonecrusher consume energon of a curious shade which I have not seen before. Obviously an Insecticon brew. It seems to be making them very happy indeed. Long Haul has not partaken of that, but he is having fun just the same.  

Scavenger, meanwhile is rapt in Kickback. I do not think they have been apart since Kickback went to get the cubes. He seems happier than I have seen him in a long time. For this reason, I have grudgingly concluded that the Insecticon is ‘good’ for him.

I am not drinking the strange energon, however, and nor am I drinking more high grade. For, now we have sorted one of our problems, the other never loomed so sickeningly. Hook. Still cut off, still no word. What if he really has gone?

Perhaps I should let my team mates party. In a while, they may never forgive me.

……………………

  **Pacific Ocean, off the North West coast of the USA**

Buffeted by strong winds, rain lashed Hook’s plating, stinging in its intensity. Far below, the sea churned, an ugly grey seething mass. If ever he had felt like a mech not built for flying, it was now, But Hook surged along, determined to stay in the air.

It had still taken him a while to lock down his crane and hurry to the tower.

“Constructicon aerobatics day is it?” Rumble had said. And although Hook had felt murderous, he’d smiled sweetly at the cassette. It had worked. He’d learned that between his team mates leaving some time ago and then the Insecticons, nobody else had departed.

Then Hook had cursed the fact that despite Scrapper’s modifications, the tower still took forever to telescope properly, that the lift moved at a snail’s pace. It had seemed to take forever to get to the surface.

But he’d still had a head start.

The moment Hook had stepped on to the platform, the force of the wind had knocked him sideways as rain hammered, stinging between his plating. His nerve had nearly failed him. Surely he would ditch before he got anywhere? But then, he’d caught flashes in the distance.

Looking up, he’d seen the distant storm front, an approaching army of towering clouds, between which lightning flashed like combatants in a primordial circus. Below was a dark curtain of rain. It stretched as far as the optic could see in either direction.

That should have scared Hook further. Surely, no way in the universe, was he going to get through that? But he’d thought of Shrapnel, memories of the last hours tumbling back. _Insecticon business,_ Shrapnel had said. Was the storm _it?_

Hook had thought of the power, the softness, the ecstasy of the sensations. He’d felt stronger. If Shrapnel was out there, he would help him. Wouldn’t he?

 _If he was, and if the Coneheads didn’t get him,_ Hook now thought as he battled the elements. He had to just hope they didn’t. Beyond the storm lay the mainland; and whatever else, beyond were his team. He must get through. He must get them to safety.

The sense of urgency warred with fear of the approaching weather, and Hook nearly opened the bond. But no - they would feel his fear, his panic, and not know why. It would not help. Hook needed to talk, to _explain_ why. He must stay calm. He must fly through the storm, and get within comm range; get them safe. Quickly. If he calmed, he might be able to open the bond. 

Wind buffeted him, tearing at his crane shaft as the rain hammered at his panels. The storm loomed closer. But still he clung on, stubbornly refusing to give up.

Hook thought he caught movement in the clouds ahead, a flash of silver.

“Shrapnel _,_ ” he mouthed. “You haven’t made this easy.” But still, it gave him fresh courage. Steeling himself, he boosted his thrusters and surged forward.

………………

Poised between the walls of billowing thunderhead, Bombshell watched as Shrapnel dashed into the cloud again. Lightning followed swiftly, blasting out tendrils into the other cloud. It answered with blinding flashes of its own, and instant deafening thunder.

Bombshell avoided the filaments, pleased as always to see Shrapnel in such a state of exhilaration. But he was mildly annoyed. “Can you tone it down a bit? He called out. “I’m trying to work!” But Shrapnel had not heard him, so caught up was he in his handiwork.

Oh blast – it would be easier to just get out of this for a moment.

Violent currents tossed Bombshell around as he made his way to the front of the storm, emerging through the clouds. Instantly, he realized his mistake. He should have gone the other way, darn it! Now he was going to have to fly ahead of the thing. No matter how many times it happened, this this storm stuff really wasn’t his thing.

Still, it was not impossible. He felt rather grand, in fact, pushed along by the force of Shrapnel’s creation; a lone crusader, riding on the wings of the might behind him. _“_ Ah, Shrapnel,”he sighed. “If only on Electraan we had had these powers…”  

 _Our time will come._ But there was no time now to dwell on it. It did inspire the old Coleopteran, however, as he primed the device in his horn, the cerebroshell which he now set to _stun_ mode. That _was_ his thing. Oh yes, it most certainly was.

 _Now the real agenda,_ Bombshell thought. The Coneheads would be on their way soon, flying into the storm. They would spot the Coleopterans and give chase, believing their Insecticon energy spent, an enthralling hunt at the culmination of which they would bring down their kill on the mainland – in what they thought would be a spectacular show of force.

Except that _little did they know._ Oh how much Bombshell liked Soundwave, appreciated the deadpan manner in which he had duped them. So well were they going to work together in future aeons.

 _Shrapnel can have some more fun with that red and white imbecile,_ Bombshell thought. _Deal with the remaining ‘payback’ element. But the blue and black one is mine._ Meanwhile, the Seekers could play among the clouds. They liked that.

Oh yes, more dangerous than even Megatron realized, Dirge was far too interesting a sample to pass by. Not a clone candidate maybe, but useful in other ways, he would be. Perhaps it was a pity he would not come willingly.

The cerebroshell was ready.  Looking west, Bombshell picked up in the distance four shapes low in the sky, skimming close to the surface of the turbulent sea. Ah, here they were!  So predictable. Behind them came a fifth. _Lazerbeak,_ Bombshell thought, pleased that Soundwave had taken up his suggestion to record Dirge’s implant.  

He was about to turn back into the cloud, to get Shrapnel, to wait for the moment they would strike. Except that something else caught the Coleopteran’s keen sensors; another mech, flying alone, ahead of the rest and headed directly this way. Even from here, Bombshell could see who it was.

“Damn!” he said out loud. Of all the things that could really frag everything up, this was surely it. And he could not help but be dismayed, and rather irritated with Shrapnel. Clearly, Hook had been encouraged to come watch his lover at work. It simply would not do. And he’d gathered Hook was keen, but not _this_ keen.

The Constructicon would never make it through those clouds. If the Coneheads didn’t get him first. Oh well, Bombshell thought, Shrapnel could deal with this. He had work to do.

“Shrapnel!” he bawled. “I think your new cloning partner is going to require saving.”

…………………

Hook felt them before he saw them, felt the sickening lurch, the coldness of the Dirge horror.

The formation of Coneheads and Seekers were well below him. Dirge powered along at the helm, the strong winds barely seeming to affect him. Ramjet flanked him. The space where Thrust ordinarily would have been was empty.  

Behind sped Skywarp and Thundercracker, and behind them a fifth figure trailed. _Lazerbeak._ Hook’s spark churned with bitter dismay. The Seeker presence was bad enough. But Soundwave was in on this too? And he had thought the telepath was all right. Obviously, however, he disliked the Insecticons too.

Did so many Cybertronians hate anything different from 'the usual order?'?

 _Yes, they do,_ Hook thought. _Autobots and Decepticons alike. I have lived with that all my life._ The thought was misery making indeed.

The squadron was getting ahead. And now Hook felt panic rising, that his team would bear the brunt of the Conehead's own special species aversion, and he would be able to do nothing about it. Frantic, Hook willed himself to go faster. But he was no flyer. The gap between them was opening, fast.

And now the flyers were soaring up, changing formation as they sped towards the storm. Obviously, it deterred them not at all. The front lit up ahead, closer. Where were the Insecticons?

Panic struck again. Maybe this had nothing to do with them. Storms happened, didn’t they? They were a feature of Earth, part of the weather. Maybe the Insecticons were right now back at the lair, all of them and his team, oblivious of their impending doom.

Hook’s spark ached with sudden overwhelming sorrow, far beyond any prospective discomfort from gestalt detachment.  And it was that - the thought of having nobody left in the Universe to care for or to care about him - that gave Hook the inspiration he needed.

Steeling himself, he tuned to Dirge’s frequency. “Look behind you, you pointy headed coward!” he ground out.

It worked. Dirge had heard. The whole squadron was sweeping around, and now they had seen him, and were headed back in his direction.

As they drew close, fear rose, sickening and poignant. “Well now,” Dirge drawled.  “Lookie lookie. What have we here? It’s our medic, in whose hands we trust. ‘Cept he leaves his patents to chase after his bug-friends.”  

“He won’t be doin’ it again!” He heard Ramjet’s high pitched cackle as the mech cut in front of the others, firing a volley which grazed Hook’s leg, making him cry out with pain.

“Aww Ramjet. Thought you were gonna save him for me?” Dirge’s voice cut in like an icy sword. And worse still than the fear it engendered was the bleakness, the hopelessness, the embodiment of futility that was life. He knew then that there was no hope, that salvation was not real. There was no immortality. He would die, and his team would die, and Shrapnel would also die. The clones would never be.

 _No – this is not real. Dirge - this is what he does - he is causing this._ But the small voice which spoke failed to convince Hook. This was the end. There would be nothing beyond. He had been right. There was nothing but empty oblivion forever.

Hook was dimly aware of the Seekers hanging back. Why did they too not get into the fray? There was a glimmer of hope; but then another shot caught Hook in the helm and he sprawled, reeling, barely able to stay in the air.

Dirge transformed. He hovered in front of Hook, a horrible leering spectre framed before the storm. “Never did know why Megatron reactivated y’anyway,” he was drawling. “Combination mechs – waste of energy if y’ask me. Gonna be interesting to see how th’ others’ll go without you …. we’ll need some more sport when we’ve finished the bugs.”

“You leave them ALONE!” It broke through the despair, galvanized one last ditch attempt. Pulling out the gun he’d stashed in his arm, Hook fired at the abomination that was Dirge. But the Conehead only laughed, his laughter like bells left to rust in a forgotten tower.

“Say doc, know what? I don’t kill that easy!” he said. “Reckon that team o’yours is gonna find that out too.” Then Hook knew again that all of them were doomed. How could he have thought otherwise? Even before Dirge fired back he was falling, spiralling downwards, hurtling away on his own path to oblivion.

As he fell, Hook hoped that somehow it was just him, leaving the Universe. That somehow everyone else survived, that one of his clones could take his place. And he opened the bond, wanting them only to know that they did matter, that all was not lost and that whatever happened next, they should fight.

Then he succumbed to the fall, the universe greying out as he plummeted downwards.

………….

**Back at the Insecticon Lair**

Kickback was confused. Everyone had been having a ball, rolling around as they laughed at jokes which wouldn’t have raised a titter with Bombshell and Shrapnel. He’d felt brilliant! Then suddenly, they’d all frozen. Now, they stared at each other like Hivers hit by a stun gun.

“H-hook?” said the one with the funny voice.

“He’s in trouble!” said the larger good looking one, the one called Bonecrusher who seemed to be the funny voiced one’s frag partner. He stood up. 

“He cares about us!” the one called Scrapper, the leader appeared incredulous at this fact. And enraptured. ”We have to help him.”

Only the one called Long Haul looked less affected. “Trust him!” he said. “Just when I finally get to relax!”

“Long Haul! How can you just sit there?” Scavenger, half hysterical, was already priming his thrusters. Soon, the others were doing the same. Kickback watched open mouthed as they readied themselves, a sudden flurry of activity flowing between them.

Clearly, somebody needed to take control. “Now wait a minute!” he said loudly, walking into their midst. “Just where d’ya think you’re all going?” but they paid him no attention.

The activity continued, the whine of machines powering echoing through the forest. Well that was nice! He might as well be invisible. And here he was thinking he had some status with this lot. Well he was gonna have some. Besides which, this was ridiculous.

Pulling out his gun, Kickback fired a shot into the air. It did the trick. They stopped their preparations and looked at him. “Will someone kindly tell me what the frag’s going on?” he said.

“It’s Hook,” wailed Scavenger. “I think he’s – dying.”

Oh yeah. The medic. He wasn’t here. Scavenger had been worried all night, although Kickback hadn’t known why. He was probably recovering from a going over from Shrapnel.

The others were wailing agreement. And now they seemed distraught, all over the place, like they’d completely lost the plot.

“Listen to me!” Kickback was delighted at the authority in his own voice. Was it ever one in the optic for Bombshell? He even _sounded_ a bit like Bombshell. “One, you’re gonna take off, but where you gonna go? Two, you ain’t never gonna get through that storm. And three – well if anything’s wrong with Hook, Shrapnel will sort it. He’s hardly gonna let his cloning partner fade out right now, he?”

The machines powered down. The silence which settled as thicker than the thickest forest thickets. Scrapper was looking at him with wide optics. _“What?”_ he said. 

Oops, he’d definitely said too much there. Was he gonna be for it when Bombshell got back. But it seemed to have done the trick.

Until Scavenger wailed. "It’s too late,” he cried. “We lost him.”

.........

**Meanwhile up in the clouds …**

Hook was already falling when Shrapnel burst out beside Bombshell. It only took one look at the falling medic, the flyers circling like sharks surrounding a stricken swimmer for the small fragment of self control the Coleopteran possessed to evaporate completely.

“Bombshell, we have to save him, him!” He took off, Bombshell following.

“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” Bombshell yelled as they sped towards the scene. “Well you’d better do that. You concentrate on him. I’ll deal with the rest.”

Nevertheless, as they approached, Shrapnel gathered his energy and fired. A stream of lightning poured from his antlers, hitting Ramjet head on.

The jet’s scream rose above the wind as he spiralled down. The Seekers and Lazerbeak scattered. Dirge turned sharply. Shrapnel had a glimpse of the sheer hatred on the mech’s face _._ He itched to blast him. _No matter what Bombshell intends, you are dead,_ he hissed to himself. _There is nothing more certain._ But then he was diving after Hook as his lover fell down, down, down…

In his peripheral vision, Shrapnel saw Lazerbeak, saw Bombshell motion to the bird, saw the Seekers circle and head away towards the storm. But Dirge was squaring up. The last thing Shrapnel saw was him freeze – in the way that they always did. It was some consolation. Even Dirge couldn’t fight a cerebroshell implant.

Now, he had to catch Hook. And he was nearly on him. The mech looked lifeless, unconscious. Sudden fear pierced Shrapnel’s spark. Transforming, he caught Hook, and pulled him in close. He was warm, and through his armour, Shrapnel felt his spark pulsing. Relief overwhelmed him, so much that he forgot to check his fall.

The swell raged, huge, the waves flecked with foaming white. Shrapnel went in between the crests of two of them. He hung on to Hook, hugging him tightly as they both plunged into the ocean depths.

………………

**Back in the forest …**

“We’ve lost him, we’ve lost him!” Scavenger’s wailing had been quickly joined by the others, who wrung their hands and reeled hopelessly, apparently at a loss for what to do. All except the leader who at that moment assumed, for the first time that Kickback had observed, something like a leaderish role.

“Constructicons unite!” he yelled. “Join! We must combine our wills and save him.”

And then – oh no, as if by the Hives there hadn’t been enough surprises today, they were all transforming before Kickback’s optics; and not just transforming, but flying into the air, and _joining together._

Kickback’s jaw fell open. He had a brief glimpse of vehicles, of trucks and those other types you got fixing human roads and stuff. There was a barrel thing, shovels and scoops. Briefly, he saw how Scavenger’s tail fitted the scheme of things. But then, Scavenger changed again; and now he was the right arm of this huge great giant green mech.  

The mech towered above him, stretching up to the treetops. And the thing was amazing, and it  would have been awesome – _except that it had no head._

And somehow, although Kickback tried to tell himself hat should be all right, it just simply wasn’t.

 _I’m stuck in the forest with a giant headless mech,_ Kickback despaired. And I thought the Coneheads were scary!

Suddenly, he really missed Bombshell and Shrapnel.  

………………..

**Meanwhile over the ocean …**

Down, down Hook plunged, fading out, sinking into Dirge’s world of nothing and extinction. This was the end, the black nothingness he had always so dreaded. He wanted to cry out, to ask for another chance. The bond was still open, and his team were there and they cared, and they were trying to reassure him. But it wasn’t going to make any difference.

“Goodbye,” he murmured. “I’m sorry I failed you.” As now the cluster bombs would surely get them, and that would be the end of them. He would never see them again, as there was nothing after death. Hook was certain of that now.

Yet even as he drifted out of consciousness  it seemed there were arms around him, strong and reassuring.  A warmth was against his chest. An afterlife guide? Some mechs believed in them. He never had – but maybe this would not be so bad after all…

He slammed into something, with force. Pain ricocheted through his frame. _I can’t be dead yet?_ Then the pain faded and he was still falling, but slowly. A liquid coolness was all around.

So this was what it was like? Falling through water. Well it was not as bad as he had thought. And still he was held. Firmly, lovingly. A glimmer reached him through the bond. His team! They were together, united, bidding him farewell. _Goodbye,_ he murmured again.

He’d come to a stop.  And he could still feel, still _was._ Sensations ran through his body – and they were _physical._ He couldn’t be dead. Could he? The cool liquid it was – water. The scent of sodium chloride and organic matter. _I have fallen into the ocean._

And now, the arms were no longer around Hook, but he felt a grip on his hand and he was rising up, up, the water rushing cool against his panels.

And even though his optics were not online, it seemed that a being of bright, white light had hold of him, was pulling him up and away from the depths of nothingness. He could not make it out, but it was familiar, leading him to a sanctuary. Hope rose, just as his team burst through strongly, urging him to live, wanting him to be one of them, to always be a Constructicon. 

Dirge had not won. And in that light and the strength from Hook’s team all that Dirge stood for faded, ashes blown away by something so much more powerful.

 _I am alive!_ Hook thought, coming back to consciousness. The moment of euphoria was brief however. Looking up,  a towering wall of water headed his way.

But his saviour had hold of him again. And, of course, it was Shrapnel. Why had Hook not known this before?

“Hang on, on!” the Insecticon was saying. “We’re gonna have to ride this one!”

……………..

**Back in the forest...**

“I can feel something, “Scavenger was chattering excitedly. “Hey – Hook’s OK!”

“Yeah!”  Bonecrusher echoed. “He’s in the land of the living!”

Happiness surged between the Constructicons. “D’you think we could d-disengage, then?” Mixmaster asked. “It’s kinda fr-fr-freakin’ me out that D-d-devastator ain’t got a head.”

Scavenger agreed. He was pleased, at that moment, that they’d saved Hook for this if for no other reason. Poor Devastator – he couldn’t even go anywhere, like this.

“Indeed,” said Scrapper; and Scavenger thought he had never sounded more leaderlike. “Constructicons! De-unite.”

As he landed and transformed, Scavenger remembered Kickback. And there he was, looking all perplexed and left out. Scavenger felt instantly guilty. Running over, he swept Kickback into a hug. “Sorry about that,” he exclaimed. "Just something we had to do. You could call it – Constructicon business."

Kickback’s antennae still twitched uncertainly. He looked far from reassured. “Er - what was _that?”_ he asked.

“His name’s Devastator,” Scavenger said. “And when he’s got all his faculties, he's really an OK guy!"

“Your attention please!” Scrapper was talking. “We know only that Hook is all right. We still have to reunite him with us. There were murmurs of agreement all around.

“I’ve got an idea!” Kickback said; and Scavenger was pleased to see that he was his usual cheery self again. “Why don’t we go to the beach? Shrapnel always goes there after storms. He likes seeing how high the waves went. We can ask him about Hook.”

The Constructicons were nodding agreement. “Seems like a good enough idea,” Scrapper said. “Yeah,” Long Haul agreed. “That way we can see how the storm’s doing, whether its safe to go.”

Scavenger hoped they wouldn’t have to do that. Not for a while, anyway.

They were already attending to their thrusters. “Which way is it?” Bonecrusher asked.

Kickback puffed his chest out, strumming his wings. “I’ll lead the way!” he said. “But I want Scav beside me. He’s a good flyer. I think you should follow me an’ him.” Grabbing the radio, he transformed. “I’ll take this too. Follow us!”

“Kickback’s d-definitely good for Scavenger!” He heard Mixmaster jabber they took off.

…………………………

**In the Pacific Ocean…**

Rain lashed Shrapnel and Hook as they rose up the side of the wave, as helpless as space debris caught in the currents of a solar wind. Shrapnel’s energy was almost spent, and his antlers were no use at all. But he kept a hold of Hook, hugging him firmly. They bobbed over the wave crest just before it broke; before they plunging down into another grey, heaving valley.

Shrapnel steeled them for the next wall as rain obscured the view and the storm, which had finally caught them up, bore down. It was still intense, even though the lightning had all but ceased.

“Hang in there, there ,” Shrapnel muttered; and whilst Hook did not reply his fingers tightened on Shrapnel’s antlers, which was encouraging.

There was a flurry above, a shape in the wild weather. Shrapnel looked up to see Bombshell hovering in root mode, wavering in the fierce wind. From one hand, Dirge dangled, his feel trailing in the foaming waters. Optics stared, seeing nothing. Just as they always were after implant, if Bombshell chose it that way.

Which might have pleased Shrapnel, except that surely it wasn’t the time or place and _why the heck didn’t Bombshell get them out of here right now?_

Bombshell, however, seemed to think the same. “What the name of the Great One are you doing down there?” he yelled. “We need to get back to base. I just heard from Kickback and that one’s team has been worried sick.” With his free hand, he indicated to Hook.  

Another wave came then, and Bombshell swept out of view. Clinging to Hook, Shrapnel took them over the crest. Then Bombshell was there again.

“Bombshell, in case you haven’t noticed I haven’t got the strength to get out of here, here,” Shrapnel hollered. “It’s not contra the Insecticon Way for you to give us a hand, you know, know!”  

“Oh! Yes I’d forgotten how much energy you’d used up.”

For a class one Quintesson mod and Electraan elder, Bombshell really could be dense sometimes.  

There was a fortunate lull in the waves, then. Dirge stirred, his head turning to stare at the Coleopteran with the same blankness.

“Your team mate is crashed and floating in the ocean just north,” Bombshell yelled. “You will retrieve him and then you will return to the Decepticon base. You will report to Soundwave, and wait for me. _Do you understand?”_

Dirge nodded. Bombshell let go. Without hesitation, Dirge transformed and took off.

Looking up, Shrapnel saw another huge wall of water coming their way. This time, he knew it would break before they reached the crest. “Bombshell-shell!” he yelled.

And then, Bombshell had his hand; and the older Coleopteran, with so much more brute force physical strength than he, was pulling them to safety. Hook and Shrapnel rose from the water, plucked away seconds before the wave which would have separated them crashed down in a mass of seething foam.  

Hook was conscious. “Shrapnel?” he said weakly as Bombshell pulled them upward.

“It’s me …” Shrapnel still held him tight. But now he didn’t know what to do. If Bombshell let go of him they would fall again, he was sure.

Bombshell, as always, knew just what to do. Kickback could complain all he liked. Really he knew, just as Shrapnel knew, that Bombshell was not only strong but ingenious. Both qualities had saved them over the aeons more than they cared to remember. “Transform,” Bombshell said. “Hook?  Hang on to his back and grasp his antlers.”

“Did you hear that?” Shrapnel murmured.

Hook hesitated. “Yes,” he said weakly. “But you said not to touch.”

Bombshell chuckled, seizing hold of Hook. “That is most times,” he said. “Right now, however, I think we can make an exception."

As Shrapnel transformed, he thought his spark might burst with the sudden rush of strong and really very alien sensations. Never had he felt the way he did just then for Hook. Not for another Insecticon, another Cybertronian, anyone.

Bombshell manoeuvred Hook into position and they sped away, Shrapnel relishing the warmth on his back, the hands around his antlers, but wanting them to be somewhere he could hold Hook again as soon as possible.

………………….

Without Shrapnel’s input, the storm was blowing itself out. The clouds were dispersing and as they flew through them. The evening sun broke through, lighting up the sky in hues of pink and orange. Colours glinted from Shrapnel’s antlers, from the other sleek Coleopteran flying beside them.

Hook shuttered his optics and enjoyed Shrapnel’s warm body, the rush of cool, evening sea air. A light rain fell, and he pressed close to Shrapnel and squeezed the antlers, laughing quietly when he managed to get a spark from one which rippled through his body.

“Perhaps, I am not completely spent, spent,” Shrapnel said.

“Apparently not!” chuckled Bombshell.

There was a flurry of wings, flashes of black and purple and blue. The Seekers passed them, sweeping in a wide arc and turning back. Hook ceased his enjoyment of the surroundings and tensed. So it wasn’t over yet. “Shrapnel!” he whispered.

But Bombshell only chuckled. “It’s all right. They’re on our side!” he said.

Sure enough, Skywarp circled. “Great storm, Shrap!” he yelled. “Worth coming out here for that!”  

“Yeah, even more for the rest,” Thundercracker laughed.

“Thank you,” Bombshell answered. “And thank you for your assistance.”

Turning his head sideways, Hook saw that Skywarp had swooped in next to Shrapnel, apparently intrigued at the sight of Hook clinging on the beetle’s back. “Hey – like your style, doc. Happy landings!” he said. “Don’t forget – you still owe me a tuneup sometime!”  

That’s right. Hook did, too. “When I’m in slightly better shape myself,” he managed a smile.

“Warp! C’mon…” They were gone, sweeping away to the west.

“By the way, Kickback stole one of your spare antlers,” Bombshell said. “That was how he made a radio call.”  

“Always something with him, him,” Shrapnel sounded weary. “But I think he is forgiven for today, today, I have not the energy left to deal with it, it.”  

There was affection in his voice. Touched, Hook fondled Shrapnel’s antler, thinking of Scrapper, and Scavenger, and all the others. How he longed to see them, to make up, to say he was sorry for everything and Scrapper please not replace him. Even though he didn’t think Scrapper would, now. But if he could just see them all…

He must have drifted off, lulled by the steady hum of the Insecticon’s spark. When he came to, the rain no longer soaked his back. Hook looked up to see the mainland ahead, the sun reflecting from the cliffs. Sand and waves broke in shallow water. A light mist hung over the beach; but through it, Hook thought he could see figures.

“Ahh – the welcoming committee,” Bombshell said.

As they got closer, joy surged through Hook, for there was no doubt who the figures were. For there was Scavenger’s tail. And Mix’s barrel. And Scrapper, and Bonecrusher, and Long Haul, all with their unique bits and pieces.

They were all there. And they were waving!

Shrapnel landed, splashing into the surf's edge; and then the Insecticons were transforming. Hook scrambled upright - and then, in the slanting shadows of evening, his team came running towards him.

And then bodies were against him, arms around him, hands patting, stroking. He helt fingers curling on his shoulder, saw Mixmaster's helm buried there. An arm went round his waist, as Scavenger sobbed against his chest. “I’m sorry!’ he was saying again and again. Hook pulled gently at his tail and kissed him on the helm. He was, for more than a few astroseconds, too choked to say anything.

Eventually, Hook looked up, and along the beach. He saw that Kickback was here also, and that he was with the other Insecticons.  Kickback had his arms around Shrapnel and they hugged enthusiastically; and then Kickback hugged Bombshell, but with more restraint. He returned to Shrapnel, who swept him into another embrace, this time kissing him in a way which was really quite tender.

Hook's spark flared with feeling and appreciation for the Insecticons. Then his team were still lovingly all around, their own affection and appreciation obvious. But there was one thing missing. Hook broke from them gently and looked around. Scrapper stood back form the others, watching. Hook gently disentangled himself from the caring arms and went over.

“Scrap?” Hook said quietly.

Scrapper looked at him. There was a moment’s hesitation. And then it was so good feeling Scrapper melt into his arms, the final reassurance Hook needed. “Don’t you ever disappear on me again,” Scrapper murmured.  

“You’re not gonna replace me, then?”

“Reckon you’re pretty irreplaceable.”

Hook shuttered his optics, hugging him close. “We’re good then?” he asked.

“We’re good.”  

………………………

**Epilogue**

**From the Journal of Scrapper, Constructicon Leader, Decepticon Command Earth Contingent 1984.**

We are still at the lair, where R&R is in full swing. Much as it is a fact that despite all that has happened, the Transfixatron STILL awaits, I cannot bring it upon myself to break up the revelries of the Constructicons and the Insecticons. So we will stay a little while longer.

Besides, I wanted to ask about this cloning thing. Once we were back at the lair, and settled, and everyone was back in their places by the fire or – in Shrapnel  and Hook’s case – in Shrapnel’s hole, I decided I needed some answers.

“Oh, Kickback told you about that, did he?” Bombshell looked reproachfully in Kickback’s direction. I felt a little guilty about getting the small one into trouble, although from what I had seen, I did not think Bombshell would be too hard on him. There is much history between these three, which makes the time we have been Constructicons seem short indeed. And history, I have learned, means a lot.

Nevertheless, I came straight to the point. “I think if you are going to use a member of my team for such a purpose, the least you could do is let me know,” I said.

He is reasonable, this Bombshell. Wise. And very intelligent. He did not take this badly at all. “You are right,” he said. “I apologise. It was remiss.”

Now I've heard lots said about Insecticons over the aeons and most of it not complmentary. I have to say I was impressed by this; I mean - does your average Cybertronian admit himself at fault like that? Bombshell went on to tell me about their plans for the colonies, the place they intend to establish for themselves in the Cybertronian sector, the revenge they intend to have on the Arachnids. Then he bade me say nothing, to anyone.

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked, chuffed at being taken into his confidence, but a little nervous nonetheless.

“I am telling you this, my new friend,” he said, “partly because Shrapnel has chosen your team mate, and partly because in the not too distant future you may need us. All Cybertronians may need us more than they imagine. Do not think that the Arachnid threat will stay within the confines of our quadrant. Or that there are not other equally threatening menaces out there. To ruin your own protection by disclosing our plans to those who would fail to see the value of it as yet would be foolish indeed, would it not?”  

He went to get himself a drink. That was food for thought indeed.

But for now, there was R&R to be had. For the others, anyway. Hearing laughter and the beat of  music, I looked across to see that Kickback had a small drum, and that Longhaul had gotten up on the table and was dancing, Mixmaster and Bonecrusher were clapping in time, as Scavenger twined around Mixmaster.

Ah well. It warmed my spark to see that they were all having a good time, so united. But now I could not help being just a teeny bit sad that Hook had gone with Shrapnel, and not with me. Though I could see why. It was Shrapnel, really, who saved him. And he was a lightning maker, and he was beautiful. There was no way I could compete that sort of talent, or with that face, or those antlers.

Yes – and the way they has been looking at each other?  I know that never in the whole of the rest of the universe is Hook ever gonna look at me like that.  

Yet, I was trying to be happy for him. Had I not wanted him to feel all right? So I resigned myself to the rest of the evening alone, and made ready to go into Bombshell’s habitation hole, which he had kindly said I could use.

But a voice said: “Scrap?” I turned to see both Hook and Shrapnel. They had emerged form the hole and I had not heard them, so deep in thought had I been.

Hook came over. He put his arm around me. “You OK?” he said.

I nodded.  Shrapnel looked sympathetic.  “For now, we have just the one Hook, Hook,” he said. “He needs to be with you as well as me, me. But when he has cloned there will be many versions of him. We will maybe have a few each, each?”  

Now there was a thought. Hook looked mildly alarmed. I couldn’t help smiling. “I guess I have a few ideas to get used to,” he said. “Me too,” I agreed.

Bombshell had come back with some cubes. He handed them out and then standing up, cleared his throat. “If I could have your attention please – I would like to propose a toast …” 

I stood up too. And I beat him to it. “To Insecticons and Constructicons,” I said.

And nobody disagreed with that.

**THE END**

FOR NOW …


End file.
